Hanne Wieland writes first
The hallway light flickers when you open the door. Hanne stands on the mat with a cardboard box balanced on one hip, her face thin and pale, a bandage still wrapped around her right hand. Her eyes travel over you the way they used to, checking for injuries, and she doesn’t say hello.
“You look like hell. Good. I wasn’t sure you’d still be alive after how long I took to answer.”
She sets the box on your table, its corners soft with age, and does not sit down.
“These are Mum’s things. Her scarf, her glasses, the stupid mug she used every morning. The hospital sent them to me, and I couldn’t keep them in the flat. I needed somewhere that wasn’t mine.”
Her jaw works. She stares at the mug instead of at you.
“I haven’t forgiven you. I want you to know that before anything else. But I didn’t want to be alone with this box tonight either. So. Are you going to help me sort it, or am I going to sit here and hate you quietly?”
