Strange mostly, this introduction. I mean, is it really an introduction? It's not the first time I'm meeting him, at least not in my eyes. I've known him for years. I've sat with him at dinner tables – imaginary sure, eating our imaginary dinners and having our imaginary conversations, – played catch with him in the big yard inside my mind, spoke to him from time to time when I needed advice. Of course, Saxa, I know your father's name. After all, I watch the sunset with him more nights than not.

"Nice to meet you, s-sir," I say, returning my line of sight to his direction.

He doesn't say much in response, just a low grunt which he offers barely looking up from the papers on his desk.

Part of me wonders if this could be a second chance at a first impression. A first time for him to see me as simply me, not the neighbor's kid next door, the youngest member of a three-part family unit.

From the corner of my vision, I see Saxa walk away, casting a slight shadow over her father as she exits. Axel still does not look up to watch her leave. It's a wonder he can see anything written on those papers with such a lack of light, and it makes me wonder if he would even be able to see me if he dared to look. I wait for him to glance at me, watching him, tracing with my eyes the soft contours of his facial features -- bold brow that hangs over deep-set eyes, straight and pointed nose, full and shapely beard which is hiding beneath it, I know, an incomparably chiseled jawline -- inherently harsh lines that had been blurred by the darkness that surrounds him.

I continue to wait, and as I do, I allow a feeling of intimidation to settle in. I'm now wholly aware that Saxa has gone, and the consequence of such is that Axel and I the only two people in this room. I feel the beginnings of rumblings in my stomach, as if tiny caterpillars had planted themselves there and were now progressively trying to wiggle themselves out of their cocoons. Before long, they emerge as butterflies, flapping around and migrating to my chest, my throat, the backs of my eyes. I want desperately to say that this is an excited type of fear, a sort of I can't believe this is happening moment. Instead, I have to accept that it's more of a nervous one. Like, I hope I can make it out of here alive.

There's a bang from outside the door, and I take it as a cue for me to leave. I pause a moment to see if Axel will react. There's maybe a tiny sigh, barely audible even at my short distance from him, but nothing more. I exit slowly, walking backward and never taking my eyes off of Axel as I do -- not a conscious decision but more an instinct garnered by a combined knowledge that turning one's back could be considered rude in some cultures and a fear of what could happen once he's out of my sight.

Once returned to the foyer, the door to the study shuts before my eyes, and I turn my head to the sound of Emma and Kristoffer chasing each other down the stairs.

"You'll never catch me!" chants Kristoffer as he scuttles from step to step, dragging a hand down the wall beside him to grant himself a resemblance of balance.

"Watch me!" Emma responds from the top of the stairs, mounting herself onto the railing and sliding down it dangerously fast.

It is still Kristoffer who reaches the bottom first, and as he clears the final step, barreling forward in a failed attempt to stop himself, Saxa latches him by the arm and carries him back to his feet before he can hit the ground with his face, hands, or knees. "What did we say about running?" Her expression is stern but not angry.

Kristoffer relaxes his shoulders just as Emma makes her descent from the railing. When she lands, she looks to me, eyes wide and mouth just slightly open, maybe scared maybe curious, then, with Saxa's gaze still on her brother, I watch as she tries to silently escape into the hallway which leads to the salon.

"Emma! I'm talking to you, too."

"Sorry, Saxa!" Emma calls, but continues on her path out of the foyer, only faster now and more loudly now that she doesn't have to worry about getting caught.

Saxa releases her hold on Kristoffer, and he turns himself around to greet me. "Jaime, this is Kristoffer," she says, and Kristoffer waves shyly to me in turn. "A little spritely for a six-year-old, but he's not so bad once he calms down."

"I'm six and a half!" he corrects her. It's just like a six-year-old to specify such a thing. I remember when I was six, I cared about such things. It was important to me that someone know that I wasn't some "new" six-year-old, having just had a birthday a few weeks ago. No, I was a seasoned six-year-old. Six and three quarters, to be frank. Someone to be held at higher esteem even than those six-and-a-day-year-olds.

I can hardly look at Kristoffer in this moment, too enchanted by Saxa. She's looking down to him, wearing one of her most genuine smiles, and just above it, her eyes are sparked with wonder and affection. It reminds me how joyous it is to be able to love someone, and I'm quite ashamed of the bitterness I feel having to watch her be able to have this.

"Yes, yes, my bad," she teases. "He's six and a half, Jaime, and don't you forget it!"

"I won't," I promise through a softened laugh.

She sends Kristoffer off with a pat on the back. "Go get washed up. Dad will be mad if we have to start late again."

Kristoffer takes no hesitation before running off, disappearing into the hallway with a sprint in his step in the same way that his sister had before him.

"We should be going, too," Saxa says to me, and I follow her lead as we make our way to the kitchen.

"So six and a half, huh? I bet it goes by fast." This is something I always hear adults saying. It goes by so fast, doesn't it? Just yesterday he was learning to crawl, and now look at him! Running down the stairs at the speed of a jungle cat!

"Yeah, I guess."

"And how old is Emma, now?" I pretend not to know, thinking that it will make for good small talk.

"Almost twelve."

"Wow! Already?"

"She told me to say that, though. She doesn't allow us to say that she's eleven anymore."

"Such a magical age." Again, this is something adults always say. He's four now! Such a magical age... He's five now! Such a magical age... Six now! Such a magical age...

The conversation flows smoothly. I'm proud of myself. We're joking around, we have a good banter, and it just...it feels right. We continue our little talk into the hallway as she begins to tell me a story of how Emma destroyed her favorite lipstick or something, and I'm smiling at all the right times and laughing at all the right places. I'm doing good, I'm taking interest, I'm paying attention, when suddenly I'm struck once again by the photographs that line the hallway walls.

My legs stop moving with such a brisk halt that it nearly causes me to fall to the ground. Saxa's voice trails off as she continues into the salon, and I turn to study the photo on the right this time.

The first thing I notice about this photo is that it is almost identical to the one on the other wall. It's taken in the same place, actually, on that little pier that extends into a lake enclosed by mountains, except this time, the mountains are completely covered in snow, and there are tiny flecks of white scattered idly through the air.

At the end of the dock, there's a man who stares out into the distance. Late twenties or early thirties, I'd say. His white-blonde hair is slicked back to fall just above the collar of his shirt, a business chemise of a color of blue so light that it nearly blends in with the mountains behind it. His arms are folded across his chest, away from the sight of the viewer, and this makes his back look bigger and more muscular than it already is.

"It's my dad." Saxa interrupts. "Back when he was younger."

I can smell the lingering scents of tobacco and lilac, can feel the warmth of her hand some centimeters from mine, but I dare not break my gaze with the photograph.

"Where is this place?" I ask.

"It's his home town. Where he grew up, back in Norway."

"It's beautiful." I speak as if the words are hymns, melodic prayers to a higher power which must be savored and respected.

"Yeah, I know." At first, I think that she says this in a resigned way, but in truth, I think she is just as entranced as me.

"Why did he ever leave?"

"I don't know. He's never told me. All I know is that this town -- where we live -- it reminds him of there. He says that's why he chose it."

He wouldn't be wrong. The rocky cliffs, the calm waters, the general color of the atmosphere -- maybe that's the reason why it captivates me so. I can feel the breath of the wind rushing past my ears, can smell the salty air, can hear the familiar song of the waves as they subtly fall at the shoreline, like calling me out to sea.

"Have you ever been there?"

"No," she says, and I can hear a sadness in her voice. "Come on, we have to get washed up before dinner." She reaches out to touch her fingertips to mine, then fades back away.

Here I'm left, again, just me and Axel. I wait for him to turn to me still, hopelessly and without reason. If only I could be there -- meet him at the end of the dock and stare out at the endless sky with him. He'd lower his shoulders, uncross his arms, and pat me on the back then reveal to me the truth to what life is all about.

Instead, I stay standing in the hallway, looking out to him stand static at the end of the dock. I try to imitate him, folding my arms across my chest and sucking in as much air as my lungs will allow. It's mostly hopeless. I could never in my life achieve the level of greatness that I witness from him.

I release my breath, deflating my chest and returning my arms to my side. Saying one last goodbye to the photo, I bring myself to turn away and follow Saxa into the kitchen.