Where the ferry was
The last ferry has gone. The fjord turns to liquid obsidian, and the only motion left is the slow settling of the wake — long translucent ribbons of disturbed water, catching what remains of a midnight-blue sky. We begin here, at the membrane between air and depth, before anything has cooled.
No wind down here
A few metres below the surface the ribbons keep moving, but there is no longer a cause for it — no wind, no tide, only the memory of motion. They undulate the way thin sheets of frosted glass might in zero gravity: each one catching the cold light differently, none of them in a hurry. The page asks you to lower the volume.
Colour leaves first
Going down, the palette darkens by one stop, then another. Warmth is the first thing the water takes — reds, then greens — until everything that remains is some variety of blue. The ribbons here move more slowly than the ones above; the deeper we go, the more time each gesture seems to require. Nothing is lost. It is only quieter.
A listening room
There is a depth at which the water stops being a place and becomes a condition — a held breath, a room with no walls. The instrumentation along the edges keeps its calibration ticks, its coordinate stamps, its thin progress meridian; but the centre of the frame belongs entirely to the ribbons, drifting, and to whoever has stopped to watch them.
The abyssal void
At the bottom the colour is almost gone — a near-black indigo, the abyssal void itself. The ribbons are still there. You can no longer see most of them; you can only sense the slow displacement of the dark as they pass. This is the deepest the page goes. It is not empty. It is full of something that does not need light to exist.
A distant lighthouse
Far above and far away, a single warm point — the only place on this whole descent where the cold gives way. It is not a destination, not a call to action; only a reminder that the surface still exists, that light is still being made somewhere, patiently, by someone who keeps the lamp. The fjord will be there tomorrow. So will the ribbons.