Please Don't Die

A Secret Third Thing

She catches her reflection against a darkened shop front on Linnégatan's cobbled sidewalk. Finally, her body seems to sigh. Finally. There you are.

"What do you mean, there's no script?" Viktor asks.

On Öckerö there's a house.

"Just that. There's no script."

Up on a cliff. Isolated. Its closest neighbours, the sparse firs surrounding the property. The second closest, a retired couple two kilometres away.

Sitting across from her and Celia, Viktor wears the face of someone who's just endured a glimpse inside Amala's brain. "There are locations," she tells him when saying something becomes imperative. Celia has taken a backseat along with Beatrice, Mika, and Niklas. Amala places her hands on the table, her palms parallel like she's reenacting the parting of the Red Sea. "Okay, there is technically a script with the appropriate scene descriptions, but as far as what character A says to character B, the answer's no."

"Why not?" he asks.

"Because why be reasonable when you can be a pain in the ass?" Celia supplies, making the table laugh.

"Typical Amala." Said with so much pride in Viktor's voice, it makes her ache. Because no, keeping him in the dark is not typical at all.

On the ground floor is a blue room. The walls, the decor, even the window is blue as it looks out over the Kattegat. There, in that room, is a boy, barely an adult himself, yet so effortless at mimicry you wouldn't think he and the girl, staring at the miniature ships behind the glass display, were the same age. She catches him looking away as she turns to face him. "I've heard about these blue rooms. Is it like those monochromatic rooms at veterinary clinics to calm down pets?"

The boy's laugh is hollow. His eyes are on the Kattegat below. "Do you see any pets around?"

The house is quiet and stuffy with the smell of ageing upholstery. Long ago abandoned, she'd say if she didn't know better.

"You, maybe." She zeroes in on something else behind the glass cupboard. She's never seen such an obsessive collection of blue knick-knacks. "Is this when you tell me your parents locked you in here as a child?"

His laugh is genuine this time. He takes a bite of his grilled cheese sandwich. She's holding the other half. Her hair is still damp from hockey practice. There's a draught in the room. She suppresses a shiver as he says, "I don't actually know why this room is blue. I never asked. It's just always been."

"If you're about to ask if I have something similar in my house, don't."

He looks like he's biting his cheek. "But you know a place like it? A place that makes you feel like this?"

She doesn't follow because, no; she doesn't. Few people have houses like his. "You mean, feels like the banality will drain the life out of you?" Sometimes she's convinced they share a second language. Other times, like now, when he smiles fondly at her, she knows she's only fooling herself.

"More like looking at the rings on a tree. Time is accelerating, but you just know this room will stand against it." He's turned her insincerity—her attempt at dark humour—sincere with his words. "Makes you wish it would stop doing that, inflicting time on you."

"What do you mean?" Maybe this is her disappointing him, but there's no sense in pretending she understands what he's talking about.

One side of his mouth quirks upwards. "I don't know. I can't put my finger on why I hate it. I hate everything about it." He shrugs. "I guess everyone has a room like that. The room you care the least for. If you spill something on the carpet—oh, well."