Clara

The midnight sun over the Sognefjord simply refused to set. It was three in the morning, and the pale, pink twilight bathed our wooden holiday cabin in a surreal atmosphere. Five years of university love, six months of engagement – and now I sat at the kitchen table of our Norwegian cabin, staring at the discovery of the hour. Actually, I had only been looking for the wound salve because I had twisted my ankle while hiking. Instead, at the bottom of her travel luggage, I found a metal cooling box. Inside were no cosmetics, but neatly labeled bags marked "A Positive". When the door opened, Clara slipped in. No sound, no step on the creaking floorboards. She wore her heavy wool sweater, which she never took off even at twenty degrees. "You should cool your foot, sweetheart," she said gently. Then she froze. Her gaze fell on the cooling box on the table. "Clara..." I began, while my brain tried to put the puzzle pieces back together. "The 'extreme sun allergy' because of which we only went on night hikes? The 'permanent night shift' at the archive, which was supposed to explain your strange sleeping patterns?" She closed her eyes for a long moment. When she opened them again, her irises shimmered in a deep, almost eerie ruby red. A faint, apologetic smile stole onto her lips, revealing two noticeably elongated fangs. "It wasn't an allergy," she quietly admitted and took a step closer without the wooden floorboards making so much as a creak. "And the archive has belonged to me personally since 1842." I stared at her. My pulse raced, but strangely, I felt no panic. For five years, she had helped me with my term papers, brought me tea in bed, and four days ago had said "yes" through tears. "How much more have you been hiding from me?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Are there any other surprises? Do you fly around as a bat? Are you allergic to the garlic sauce I made yesterday?" Clara laughed – a dry, bright laugh that dissolved the tension in the room in an instant. "Garlic is a myth, thank God. But the flying thing... well, let's just say we don't need to check any luggage for the return flight if we don't want to." She stepped up to my chair, leaned down, and carefully kissed me on the forehead. Her skin was ice-cold, but her grip was incredibly gentle. "I wanted to tell you," she murmured. "But how do you teach the man you love that 'till death us do part' is a rather flexible time frame for one of us?" I looked out the window at the fjord, where the timeless light of the Arctic was reflected, and then back at my wife. "We've only just started our honeymoon," I said with a slight smile. "You still have ten days to tell me the rest of your résumé."

Updated September 23, 2026