The country where nights become darker during the short summer, she thought. And that country is mine. Exactly that thought was forbidden. It couldn’t go any further. It couldn’t continue like this. Tonight, on 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 marrow. Melancholy. But not yet, truly not yet. She stayed looking out the window, which faced the alley leading to the front door. Close by. From the side. But at a distance nonetheless. It was like a painting. And the only element of the depiction was the naked, pure light of Midsummer. It’s mine, she thought. I’ve come to the point of deserving it. I have the 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, get excited. Until she shivered. The shiver made her move. Soon, the brightest night of the year would arrive. Soon, the nights would grow longer again. And this was not yet called summer. Not seriously, at least. No one could seriously call this cold summer. She just wanted to continue her life. Her own life. That was all. And she wasn’t allowed. Nentim. Sadness embraced her. With all her strength. She had to stop. Her heart turned to ice.