The country where the nights become darker during the short summer, she thought. And this country is mine. Exactly this thought was forbidden. It couldn’t go on any longer. This couldn’t continue. Tonight, this bright summer night, a change would happen. One way or another. She didn’t want to go outside and expose herself to the Scandinavian anxiety of the beautiful summer night. That strangely beautiful, wonderfully sharp pain that reached to the core. The melancholy. But not yet, really not yet. She stayed looking out the window that faced the little path leading to the front door. At a short distance. From the side. But at a distance nonetheless. It was like a painting. And the only element of the depiction was the bare, pure light of midsummer. It’s mine, she thought. I’ve come to deserve it. I have a right to this light. Because it called me, if nothing else. Then she stepped out into the bright night.
Bright and clear. And cold. She stood still for a moment and let herself shiver, to be thrilled. Until she shivered. The shiver made her move.