Stavanger Bay let me redefine god into something i can become

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Szymon angles his body, his golden eyes fixed patiently and warmly on Qilaq’s gray ones; he wants her to experience the buoyancy of water, but she is yet unblessed — automatically he aligns his body parallel with the muddy embankment. Even if he treads deeper, as long as Qilaq remains in front of him she should be able to keep her head above water. “Good girl,” he praises her warmly, taking another slow step back, keeping their noses within touching reach should she wish to reach out to him. Making sure to move at Qilaq’s pace instead of his own, he continues a languid rhythm — step, pause, acclimate; step, pause, acclimate — designed to build the girl’s confidence. In time, he hopes to have Qilaq submerged up to her shoulders, but he has no wish to rush things and frighten her. The Drop will happen whether the foundling is ready or not — Szymon merely wishes to give her a fighting chance.

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