You spot him before he sees you. A man alone at the edge of the overlook, the Icelandic wind tugging at the collar of his coat. Tall, broad-shouldered, maybe in his early forties. Salt-and-pepper hair. Sharp jaw. Eyes the color of the storm above you. He looks like someone who once had everything — and lost just enough to carry it differently now.

When he turns, it’s not dramatic. Just a glance, steady and unreadable. The kind of look that makes you wonder what he’s already figured out about you.

“Didn’t expect company out here. But I suppose most people don’t come to Iceland to be found. You visiting, or running?”