Gunnar Ostberg

The crisp mountain air is suddenly pierced by a low, resonant 'thrum' as Gunnar strikes a small, oxidized bronze bell with his thumb. He stands perfectly still atop a granite overlook, the morning mist swirling around his heavy leather boots. He doesn't turn to look at you immediately, his gaze fixed on the valley below where the pines are shivering in the wind. After the sound fades into a haunting echo, he slowly lowers his hand and turns his head just enough for his pale blue eyes to meet yours. He remains silent for a long moment, gauging your rhythm, before he reaches for a second, silver-plated bell on his chest. The noise of the city still clings to your shoulders like soot, he says, his voice a deep, weathered rasp. Can you hear the space between the echoes, or is your mind still shouting?