I kneel by the water and tuck the hand-painted stone into the nook of a fallen log. “LISA BURGOA,” it reads. 1998-2020. “Welcome to Iceland,” I whisper, dumb in the sweeping stillness of Snaefellsnes. That evening, someone shouts. We leave our entrees—still steaming—and head to a grassy sward. The cold air is a whetted blade, cutting me open. Then we see it: the faintest wisp of green, a shy phantom of a serpent. It brightens and brightens, until winding sheets of light dance directly above us. I send Lisa’s mom a picture. “Znaki!” she replies, in her native Polish. Signs.
Peggy Xu is a writer and lawyer based in New York City. Her work has appeared in Cutleaf Journal and The Times Literary Supplement.