That evening, T.B. arrived at Anderson's house in a Range Rover. As they drove toward the restaurant, Anderson couldn't shake his surprise. He had lived in Anchorage since childhood, and the city was as familiar to him as his own skin, yet he had never heard of this place.
The restaurant was located about an hour drive from the city center. When they arrived, Anderson was immediately struck by the striking design of the place. It was nothing like a typical restaurant—this place looked more like a resort. As T.B. guided him through the main gate and into the building, Anderson realized that the structure defied all expectations. The architecture blended the traditional Inupiat Eskimo style with elements of Chinese design, a fusion that felt both ancient and strangely modern.
There was no one at the front desk, and the place felt easily quiet. T.B. led Anderson toward a massive igloo-shaped building—easily as large as a two-story house. Made of white-painted wood, the structure resembled an oversized, modern version of an Inupiat Eskimo igloo.
"Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely," T.B. said, "please wait here for a moment. The boss is in an important, unexpected online meeting. He'll be here in about ten minutes."
"Thank you, Mr. T.B. No problem," Anderson replied politely, "and please called me Anderson only."
T.B. nodded and disappeared.
Anderson didn't immediately enter the igloo. Instead, he wandered around the resort, admiring the beautiful landscape. The garden was peaceful, with green paths lined with vibrant flowers. The gravel crunched underfoot, and stone walkways wove through the lush scenery, leading to a tranquil lake where fish swam lazily beneath the surface.
It was summer in Anchorage, a rare and fleeting season. The city, so close to the North Pole, was usually covered in snow and ice. But summer transformed the place, making the extended daylight even more precious. The sun stayed up until nearly 11 p.m., only setting for about an hour. At this hour, people in Anchorage could even read newspapers outdoors at 2 a.m.
The resort felt like a physical manifestation of peace, designed to connect people to nature and to each other. Its architecture reflected Inupiat Eskimo influences, with igloo-like wooden blocks curving around a central garden. At the heart of the garden was a small wooden house, where T.B. had led him.
The layout was a perfect blend of public and private spaces. The garden, with its miniature landscapes and carefully arranged trees, created a serene atmosphere. Looking out from the igloos, guests could take in the calm beauty of the place, as the garden stretched out before them like a painting in motion.
Anderson eventually stepped inside the wooden igloo. The structure was unlike anything he'd ever seen, with a rounded wooden dome that had been carefully assembled from interlocking blocks. Support beams ran through the center, holding everything in place, but the design felt surprisingly delicate—an elegant departure from the traditional ice igloos made by the Inupiat Eskimos. Those igloos, built from carved ice blocks, were sturdy enough to withstand harsh winds and even the weight of a person standing on the roof. The heat from the qulliq, the traditional oil lamp, would cause the snow inside to melt and freezed, strengthening the structure over time.
Inside the wooden igloo, the air was calm, lit by a single lamp that cast a soft glow over the sparse furniture. A simple wooden table and chairs sat in the center, all painted white, offering a peaceful place to sit and reflect. Hanging from one of the wooden beams was a Tautirus—the Inupiat violin. The instrument, with its deep, soulful sound, immediately caught Anderson's eye.
He took it down carefully, placing it on the table in front of him. He ran his fingers over the tautirut's strings, letting the vibrations guide his hands. The tautirut's warm, low tones filled the air, contrasting sharply with the bright, high-pitched tones of a violin. The melody was simple but rich, a sound that echoed deep in his chest. Anderson closed his eyes, lost in the music. The tautirut's bass notes spoke of deep emotions—raw, yet comforting—while the drone string hummed softly in the background, like the distant murmur of memories.
Anderson could hardly think of anything else as the music enveloped him. His fingers moved effortlessly, playing a song his adopted father used to play for him. The music was about a man, strong and steadfast like a mountain, enduring the fiercest storms and coldest winds. It was a song of resilience, one Anderson had heard countless times in his youth, but tonight it resonated deeper than ever before.
As the melody filled the space, Anderson's vision blurred. His eyes covered with tears, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming rush of nostalgia. In his mind's eye, he saw his mother, dancing gracefully in the background as his father played. It was a memory he could never escape, even though the faces were fading, and the sounds were growing distant.
Suddenly, a voice broke through the haze of his ears.
"Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely plays the song 'Deenaalee Mountain' so well!"
Anderson didn't need to turn around. He knew who it was. Kimberly Smith and William Smith, had been standing quietly behind him all along.