Norway did not speak loudly.It did not need to.
From the moment Parampal Singh arrived, sound seemed to step back. Mountains rose calmly from the earth, their reflections resting perfectly in deep blue water. Fjords stretched long and quiet, holding the sky as if afraid to disturb it.
Here, silence was not emptiness—it was presence.
He traveled by a small boat through a narrow fjord, the engine humming softly, almost apologetically. On either side, cliffs stood tall and unmoving, shaped by ice and patience over thousands of years. Waterfalls slipped down their faces like slow tears, never rushing, never stopping.
Parampal felt small.And for the first time, that felt comforting.
In a tiny village near the water, houses were scattered, not crowded. Smoke rose gently from chimneys. People spoke less, but their eyes were kind. Words were used carefully here, like something valuable.
He walked alone along a forest path where pine trees whispered when the wind passed through them. The air was cold and sharp, clearing his thoughts. In that quiet, memories surfaced—places he had been, people he had met, versions of himself he had outgrown.
Norway did not distract him.It confronted him.
At night, the sky came alive. Soft green light moved slowly above, bending and flowing like a living thing. Parampal stood still, breath held, watching colors dance across the darkness. No photograph could carry this moment. It existed only for those willing to be present.
He realized then that noise often hides truth. Silence reveals it.
Before leaving, he wrote one last line beneath the northern sky:
Some places fill you with stories.Some places empty you.Norway teaches you how to listen.
He closed his notebook and looked once more at the quiet land. The world still had many voices left—but now, he understood the power of silence among them.
The journey was far from over.