I know it was stupid, but I thought a letter might help you remember for a while. That my handwriting might wake something inside you. But now, in the cold light of day, I can see that was nonsense. “What’s the point?” I ask, fixing my eyes on myself. I would skip today if I could, lock the door and curl up under the blanket with Sixten. I don’t want to talk to anyone. But I hear the door in the kitchen again, and I rub my mouth and hang the towel back on its little hook by the mirror with a sigh.
