Chapter 2: The Lonely City
The Oslo wind, sharp and unforgiving, whipped at Rohan's thin jacket, a physical manifestation of the chill that had settled deep within him. The city, a stark landscape of glass and steel, felt alien and indifferent. The language, a melodic stream of unfamiliar sounds, was a constant barrier, amplifying his sense of isolation. He fumbled with the ticket machine at the tram stop, the Norwegian words a jumble of incomprehensible symbols. He gave up, defeated, the frustration a bitter taste in his mouth. He walked, the wind a constant, biting reminder of his vulnerability.
Rejection was a familiar sting. He'd tried cafes, shops, even the docks, offering to do anything. Each polite but firm "nei" (no) was a small, stinging wound. He wasn't just unemployed; he was invisible, a ghost drifting through a city that didn't even register his presence.
His hostel room, a cramped box with peeling paint, offered no solace. He lay on the thin mattress, the distant hum of traffic and the muffled conversations in other rooms a constant reminder of his solitude. He pulled out his mother's journal, its worn cover soft beneath his fingertips. He reread her words about Avani, a place of peace, a sanctuary. He clung to the hope it represented, a lifeline in the darkness.
He explored the city, drawn to the stark beauty of the fjords and the snow-dusted mountains. Nature's grandeur offered a fleeting sense of peace, a reminder that something beautiful still existed in the world. He stumbled upon a small park, a pocket of green in the grey cityscape. In the center stood a stone carving, weathered and ancient. He recognized the symbol – a stylized lotus with seven petals. Avani.
His research led him to a small, dusty bookstore, its shelves overflowing with forgotten treasures. While browsing, he overheard a conversation – hushed whispers of a prophecy, a sanctuary, a gateway in the Norwegian wilderness. Avani. It was real.
Leaving the bookstore, his mind buzzing with a mixture of hope and disbelief, he bumped into a woman. She was tall and striking, with piercing blue eyes that held a hint of sadness, her face weathered and strong. She apologized, and Rohan noticed a small tattoo on her wrist – the same stylized lotus.
"That symbol," he whispered, his voice hoarse.
The woman's eyes flickered with suspicion. "It's an old symbol."
"Avani," Rohan breathed, the name a question and a plea.
Anya's gaze softened. "My name is Anya."
They talked for hours, sharing stories, fears, hopes. Rohan spoke of his mother, her words, his desperate need to find Avani. Anya spoke of her own research, the "Great Imbalance," the whispers of a sanctuary. A shared sense of purpose sparked between them.
"We should work together," Anya said, her voice filled with quiet determination. "We can find Avani."
Rohan nodded, a flicker of hope igniting within him. He wasn't alone anymore. He felt a connection with Anya, a shared understanding that transcended words. He didn't just see a potential ally; he saw someone who understood the weight of the world, someone who also sought solace in the whispers of Avani. He felt a pull towards her, a sense of trust he hadn't felt in a long time.