Viggo And — Ryker

Viggo closed his eyes. Breathed. “Step one. Measure the wall.”

They were an odd pair—Viggo, a retired architect who still folded his napkins into precise triangles, and Ryker, a former wilderness guide who once started a campfire with two sticks and sheer stubbornness. They’d been neighbors for twelve years, then roommates for three, after Viggo’s wife passed and Ryker’s knee finally gave out. viggo and ryker

Viggo had spent the morning polishing his collection of vintage compasses. “Precision instruments,” he called them. Ryker called them “dust magnets.” But they shared a peaceful rhythm—Viggo at the kitchen table, Ryker on the couch with his dog, Biscuit, snoring at his feet. Viggo closed his eyes