It was a random stop. Unscheduled. Just a brief gap in the eternity of travel to give passengers a chance to stretch their legs.
I stepped down. Looked up. Felt my heart stop (and possibly break) at the sight of the mountain admiring itself in the lake.
If not for the yellow flowers growing near my feet—if not for the fact that I had feet—I wouldn’t have been able to tell up from down (that’s how discombobulating it was).
No one else seemed as stunned. I stumbled back into the bus, speechless, stupefied, and only remembered several kilometers later to ask the driver what the name of the area was.
He shrugged his Viking-like shoulders (even paradise can get monotonous if you have to drive through it everyday). You mean Oppheim Lake? He asked me in Norwegian-accented English.
I’m not sure what I meant—if we were talking about the same thing—but as we hadn’t ventured near any other bodies of water, I said yes.
He nodded. It’s very pretty, ja?
I nodded back.
It was very pretty. Pretty enough that even if nearly seven years have passed, I can still smell the breeze that wafted from the lake.
The memories are returning. The past is returning.
And with it, beheld for the first time in a long while, the future.