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I’m halfway across the park before I realize the key is missing from my hand, music pounding in my ears and the sweet ache of a run in my limbs. An ephemeral emptiness in my palm, a slowly creeping awareness of consequence. Stockholm lies in the periphery, all green grass and postcard views and whispers of what you should be missing. 

For now you’re only missing a key. 

Perhaps that’s the message. 

By the time you recover it, hours later, and the tears arrive in a surprise, he has to hold you for them to subside. You haven’t the composure to hide your inner workings. Explain, there is only perfection. 

He takes you to the water because it is the thing that always heals you, and you only briefly have time to think how long a year. Thank goodness you cannot dwell on it. 

You take the wrong subway line to your next destination.