A word that exists only in one language: Icelandic. It could be translated as: "to have enough light to find one's way." Enough clarity to distinguish the tracks to follow.
That morning, Raðljóst took on its full meaning. The sun rose over our path, our shadows were born and finally stretched across the frozen asphalt, and a light, almost forgotten warmth brushed against us. We needed it. Light, landmarks, a direction. That day, like every other, we just wanted to know where we were going.
For a few minutes, the whole world is tinged with orange. And me, in the midst of this scene, I feel torn. The desire to go home, to be with my loved ones, to return to a simpler life. But also this nostalgia that's already rising, even though we haven't even left yet. Nostalgia for all these miles, for waking up in the cold, for this endless road.
