Notched Sill, Hardangervidda, Before Snow

I spent three evenings on the approach to this seter before the light did what I needed — that flat, almost colourless grey-green that drains the hillside just after the sun drops behind the plateau. What held me was the threshold: the doorsill worn concave by two centuries of boots and hooves, the lintel notched for a bar that is long gone, the whole frame leaning slightly into the slope as if the building is listening. Charcoal laid wet into gouache ground, so the stone reads as something between weight and erasure.