Hljóðr

On the moment when the question never arrives

Silence

He did not remember how he had ended up here.
He was simply standing at the water’s edge.

The dark, motionless surface reflected nothing —
no waves, no sky, not even himself.

The shore resembled a dumping ground of forgotten eras: scraps of greasy earth, slimy planks, rusted metal.
Debris from the nineties or the early two-thousands.
A place outside of time, yet saturated with fatigue.

A boat waited by the water.

Old, wooden, darkened by salt and fuel oil.
An engine hung at the stern, long past its better decades.

On the bow, two black birds sat motionless.
They did not look at the man and did not flinch —
they were simply there, like part of the shore, like an extra shadow left behind out of habit.

An old man sat still on the bench.
Tracksuit trousers, a jacket too large.

On his face — dark, teardrop-shaped glasses, absurd here and now.
The man found it strange that he wore them; it was already gloomy, light barely reaching the water.

When the man approached, the old man stood.

At that moment, the birds lifted off in unison.
Their wings heavily crossed the air, and the black silhouettes dissolved into the fog as soundlessly as they had appeared.

The old man pushed the boat into the water and secured the engine with a short, bone-deep motion.

“Get in,” he said.

It was not an offer.
Not a threat.
More a dry fact.
The order of things.

The man obeyed without hesitation.

On the hull, beneath layers of flaking paint, he noticed an inscription —
crooked letters, drawn by a stranger’s hand, streaked with red paint:

Hljóðr

The name seemed too heavy for this vessel.
Too ancient for a rusted engine.

He wanted to ask why anyone would name a relic of the past —
but he remained silent.

The boat slowly pulled away from the shore.

The old man yanked the cord.
Once.
Again.
A third time.

The sound was dull and strained, as if the boat itself did not believe it still needed to go anywhere.

And suddenly the man was pierced by a memory —
or a dream of another life.

There, everything had been sterile:
money, private jets, hotels scented with expensive perfume.

A world without rust or traces of time.
The contrast felt almost offensive.

The engine coughed and caught.

The boat moved.

At first lazily.
The water parted unwillingly; the shore refused to let go.

He blinked —
and found himself in a gondola.

Venice.

Blinding sunlight.
The hum of the crowd.
Water shattering reflections of façades.

Opposite him sat a woman.
Too beautiful for a quiet life.

She held her phone at arm’s length, framing a shot for a live broadcast.
Her radiant smile was meant for thousands of unseen viewers —
not for him.

The fourth, vivid one —
he could no longer remember the names of the other three.

In his hands, he clutched a ring box —
heavy, proper, obscenely expensive.

He needed to ask a question.

The entire world froze in anticipation.
The gondolier softened his song.
Tourists on the bridges raised their cameras.

The script had been approved.

His wrist trembled.
His watch flashed a message from his daughter:

“Dad, send the money.
Urgently — need to close the payment.”

He hesitated for a second.

Not because of the money.
Because of the question.

Was it the one he wanted to ask?
Was it the right person?

But the mechanism was already turning.

The question slipped from his lips —
rehearsed, flawless.

She cried out with delight, adjusted the phone so the ring filled the screen,
and only then threw herself into his arms.

Applause erupted.
Glasses clinked.

He opened his eyes.

The boat was moving faster.
Too fast for an old wreck.

The shore receded rapidly;
the water boiled beneath the hull.

The old man stared straight ahead.

The man shut his eyes again.

Now he stood on the deck of a liner.

The entire ship belonged to him for the evening.
Hundreds of faces — assistants, partners, entourage.

He spoke into the microphone, confident and loud:
about strategy, about growth.

They listened, breath held.

Sweat gathered under the arms of his tailored suit.
In his throat rose that same old tremor —
the one he’d learned to mask with pauses and smiles.

And somewhere beneath his ribs, it rose again.

Not a question about markets or shares.

Something else.
Real.
Heavy as lead.

He felt it approaching.

But once more, he chose the applause.

Finished his speech.
Smiled into the lenses.

He opened his eyes.

The boat was racing.

The shore ahead emerged from the fog.

The old man had changed.
His clothes had decayed;
his features deepened, becoming heavy as stone.

The glasses were gone.

The man noticed the old man’s left eye was closed —
simply closed, as if it had never opened.

He looked back.

Where they’d come from —
only emptiness.

He closed his eyes again.
For the last time.

A yacht.

Huge as an island.

Music hammered his ears.
People everywhere — familiar, half-familiar, strangers.

Too many.

He searched for a place to breathe out.

The cabin was occupied.
The deck roared.
The bow drowned in music.

It was already in his throat.

Almost shaped into words.

For himself.

The only honest question of half a century.

He did not make it.

The shore hurtled toward them at insane speed.

He tried to shout —
to ask the old man where, why so fast —

but his jaw locked with cold.

The old man wrenched the tiller —
sharp, with a crack.

The boat lurched, knocking the ground from under his feet.

Inertia and the cold fury of the water hurled him overboard.

The water was not merely cold.

It was dense as mercury.

He choked on his first breath.

Tried to swim —
and realised with horror:
he had never learned how.

Convulsive strokes.
Futile thrashing.

The depth pulled him down.

He closed his eyes.

And saw himself on a tiny, bare island.

No houses.
No people.
No noise.

Salt on his skin.
A torn shirt.

Around him —
an endless, silent ocean.

He sat on the sand, temples aching, trying to remember

what it was he had meant to say to himself

all

his

life.