4:43 a.m.

A ferry that left in the middle of the night, and we arrive the mainland at dawn. A quiet bus ride through sleeping countrysides, the grass is covered in ethereal mist. Folklore whispers that these are elves dancing, and I am comforted in the memory of what magic such stories held in my childhood. That there was a way to explain the world without a god, without a fury, but with spirits in connection to the earth, to the cycle of things. I watch the thin veils drape the landscape, while sunrise casts a tangerine glow on the resting houses, the still trees.

We cross the bridge at the south end of the city, my south island spreading out before us like a giant in repose, the churches, my churches, standing tall at the top of their respective hills, keeping watch. We dive into a tunnel and emerge at the other end, in the old town, with its ancient buildings and narrow alleys, and for the first time in all these months, in all this treacled anguish, I love Stockholm and am grateful to be here. The sun continues its steady gait across the spires; I rest.