Waving something white, like a handkerchief, at the aurora borealis (northern lights) will make the lights come and “get you”

[Scene: A snowy field just outside Tromsø. It’s a crisp winter night, and the aurora borealis is swirling above in a dazzling dance of green and purple.]

Lena (waving a white scarf overhead with dramatic flair):
Come and get me, you magical green snakes! Come and whisk me away!

Erik (laughing, holding a thermos of coffee):
Lena, for the love of Einstein, you’re going to give the tourists the wrong idea. Someone’s already filming you on their phone.

Lena (grinning):
Let them film! If I disappear into the sky tonight, they’ll at least have the evidence.

Erik:
You do know the northern lights aren’t sentient, right? They’re just electrically charged particles colliding with the atmosphere. No vendetta against white scarves.

Lena (lowering her scarf and playfully glaring):
You and your “charged particles.” My grandmother always warned us not to wave white things at the lights. Said it’s like calling them down, and they might just snatch you. It’s not a vendetta—it’s curiosity from the sky.

Erik (sipping coffee):
And my grandmother used to say trolls lived under the bridge by the lake. Doesn’t mean I’m going to bring them a sandwich.

Lena (mock-offended):
You wouldn’t feed a troll? That explains your lack of luck in love this year.

Erik (chuckling):
Hey now. Correlation isn’t causation. I didn’t wave any white napkins at the aurora either, and I’m still single.

Lena (walking slowly, eyes on the sky):
But don’t you feel something when you see them? Like they’re watching? Like there’s something alive up there? Science can’t explain everything.

Erik (softening):
I get what you mean. Honestly, the first time I saw them—I was nine—it felt like the sky was breathing. But that feeling doesn’t mean they’re spirits. It’s just awe. Humans are wired for it. It’s the same reason we see faces in toast.

Lena (thoughtfully):
But isn’t it more fun to believe they could be spirits? I mean, just imagine: ancient ancestors dancing in the sky, checking in on us.

Erik:
It is more fun. I won’t argue that. But I think the real magic is knowing what’s actually happening. Particles from the sun, flung across millions of kilometers, igniting the sky with color. That’s cosmic poetry.

Lena (raising an eyebrow):
That does sound kind of magical… in a nerdy, National Geographic way.

Erik (smiling):
Exactly. No need for sky spirits to get goosebumps.

Lena:
Fine. But if I ever do get swooped up by the lights, I want you to say something dramatic at my funeral. Something like, “She dared to dance with the aurora, and they accepted the invitation.”

Erik (laughing):
Deal. And I’ll add, “Despite my best efforts to explain plasma physics.”

Lena (suddenly serious):
But Erik, you’ll admit this—science doesn’t disprove the old stories. Maybe they’re two ways of looking at the same thing.

Erik (nodding):
True. Science just asks for evidence. Stories ask us to feel. They both have their place. Just promise me you won’t go full Viking and start waving flags every time we’re out here.

Lena (smiling mischievously):
No promises. But next time, bring a white handkerchief. You never know when the aurora might be feeling flirty.

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[The two friends continue walking, their breath visible in the air, the lights dancing quietly above. Though their worldviews differ, they find common ground beneath the same mysterious sky.]