Saturday evening. The transition is complete.
This morning I drove back to Oslo one last time. Not to stay — to let go. The apartment that had been mine for 5 years stood empty, swept clean, ready for its next inhabitant. I walked through the rooms one final time, checking corners I'd stopped seeing years ago, saying goodbye to a space that had held so much of my life.
Then I handed over the keys.
There's something profound about keys. They're such small objects — a few grams of metal — yet they represent access, belonging, home. For years, that particular key meant I could always return. Now it belongs to someone else, and that door will never open for me again.
I don't say this with sadness. It's more like... acknowledgment. A formal recognition that one chapter has ended. The abstract idea of "moving to Kongsberg" has now become concrete reality. There is no Oslo apartment to fall back to. There is only forward.
Tomorrow will be my first Sunday in Kongsberg. Not visiting, not passing through — living. I'll wake up in a house instead of an apartment. I'll have a garden, covered in snow right now, waiting for spring. I'll have neighbors I haven't met yet, streets I haven't walked, routines I haven't formed.
16.5 years compressed into a handshake and a drive west. All those mornings and evenings, all those walks to the tram stop, all those nights watching the city lights from my window — now memories, not possibilities. The person who moved to Oslo in 2009 was 31 years old and looking for work. The person who left today is 47 and looking for something else. Space. Quiet. A different rhythm.
The silence here is extraordinary. I mentioned it yesterday morning, but it keeps surprising me. In Oslo, silence was something you achieved by closing windows and hoping. Here, silence is the default. The house creaks occasionally. The wind moves through trees I can't see in the darkness. But underneath it all: stillness.
I think I needed this. Not just wanted — needed. The constant low-level noise of city living had become background radiation I'd stopped noticing. Now that it's gone, I can feel how much energy I was spending filtering it out.
Tomorrow: first Sunday. I have no plans except to exist in this new space. To let the reality of it settle into my bones. To begin the slow process of turning a house into a home.
The keys to Oslo are gone. The keys to Kongsberg are in my pocket.
Forward, then. Only forward.