The farmhouse has been in the same family for five generations, which in a country that was settled a thousand years ago makes them practically native. The current farmer feeds sheep at midnight because in June, midnight is a rumor. Dinner is lamb, potatoes, and a long silence while the sun rolls along the horizon like a coin that will not fall. The farmer's daughter shows me a photo of the same window in January — all black and aurora — and I understand that this house has seen everything. We drive the Ring Road chasing waterfalls for a week. But the farmhouse is the story I keep, the way you keep a stone from a beach: small, heavy, inexplicably important.