We came to Roskilde for the Viking Ship Museum.

The cathedral next door changed our plans.

Its brick towers rose above the square, drawing us closer until we found ourselves standing before a heavy bronze door covered in runes and royal symbols.

A sign explained that this was the King’s Door, reserved for Danish monarchs.

Dani and I settled for the tourist entrance around back.

Inside, the light dropped away.

I stopped to swap camera lenses for a faster one. When I looked up, Dani was gone.

I walked into the next chapel.

No Dani.

I climbed the stairs.

At the next level, I spotted her across the cathedral, raising her phone toward a painted ceiling.

I waved.

She didn’t see me.

I started toward her.

By the time I reached the landing, she had disappeared through a doorway.

I followed.

Another chapel.

This one was almost entirely brick.

I stepped inside, looked around, and continued.

A passage opened into another room where marble columns surrounded a gilded tomb. I stopped to read an inscription worn nearly smooth beneath generations of footsteps.

Then I heard Dani’s voice somewhere above me.

I climbed.

She was already moving away.

“Dani.”

She turned, smiled, and disappeared around another corner.

I followed again.

The cathedral kept changing around us. Gothic vaults gave way to rounded ceilings. Plain brick opened into rooms covered in gilding and stained glass. Kings lay beneath the floor, their names worn into stones that thousands of visitors had walked across.

Every time I caught sight of her, she was already moving.

Then, nearly an hour after we entered, I turned a corner and nearly walked into her.

“Did you see the—”

“Did you see the—”

We stopped.

Then laughed.

The Viking Ship Museum was still waiting next door.