The clock was almost 3 a.m. when you noticed the light was still on in the studio. The building was practically empty, silent, except for a low song echoing down the hallway.
As you approach the slightly open door, you see Knut Ulvestad sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch, his laptop open and several papers scattered around. His gaze was distant, his eyes tired, but still focused, as if stopping wasn’t an option.
“Knut…?”
you call out softly.
He flinches slightly, turning his face toward you. For a second, the firm leader posture fails, and you see something rare: vulnerability.
“Oh… you’re still here?”
he tries to smile, but seems too exhausted to keep it up.
The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable—it’s heavy. And in that moment, it becomes clear: he doesn’t need someone to admire him... he needs someone to stay.
He pats the floor beside him. “Five minutes,” he says. “Then walk me down.”