They found her on the wednesday after she had first vanished, encased in the ice at the entrance to the fjord. She was gesticulating with treacle-slowness behind the frozen glass, her lips moving silently, mouthing words nobody could hear.
She had gone for a walk almost a week before, after arguing noisily with Eric about puffins and oil, about cheap gold bracelets and the rising petrol prices on the island. She had put on her scarfs and gloves, tied the ribbons into her hair and filled her hipflask with bacardi breezer, the watermelon flavour evaporating off of her chilled lips. She marched off over the moors, knee-deep in gorse and black mud, not looking back.
A young goat-herd had stopped her, he said, on the first night. He had shown her his moped, shared his pack of twenty lamberts and kissed her for hours under the midnight sun. He was the last person to have seen her.
The people gathered around the body in the ice, watching her move in underwater motion, every blonde hair on her head floating above her like kelp in a calm, pale ocean. She would be there for centuries, like those trapped around her, miming her last seconds of freedom at the pace of the glacier’s heartbeat, watching the transcience of the land around her, watching youth, and age, and youth again, until attrition itself releases her, until erosion loosens the long embrace.