Kennet reached the bottom of the stairs. He put a hand on the banister but went no further.

He and Astrid stared a long time at each other.

Funny I envisioned a bridge, he thought. All this time, it’s been a flight of stairs.

He put a foot on a tread. “Hallå.”

Astrid rolled her lips in and blinked rapidly. She drew a breath and her mouth formed “Hej,” but no sound came out.

Kennet came up another step.

The child in Astrid’s arms lifted his head. He had a short crop of dark blond hair, tousled in places, damp along his brow and ears. A little fist knuckled one eye, then he lay his cheek on Astrid’s shoulder again, looking at Kennet. His eyes were deep brown. A little bleary with sleep, but the gaze was direct and unblinking.

And whose little boy are you?

Kennet took one more step. Then another. He was in front of her now, just as he’d been that day in 1941. Time stretched out in places, stuck together in others. A book opened. A page turned.

He put out his hand. Astrid regarded it a bewildered moment, then she shifted the baby and freed an arm. Her palm slid against Kennet’s and they shook. She laughed, or maybe she was crying. He bent and carefully put his cheek against hers.

He held still.

“I’m Kennet Fiskare,” he said.

She trembled, and the place where their skin met grew warm and wet.

“I know,” she whispered.

“Does our returning hero wish grand dinner,” Marta asked that night, “or nursery supper?”

“Nursery supper,” Kennet said, which meant they’d eat simple food in the kitchen. It was a squash, because Major and Johnny came, and the baby’s high chair was pulled up by Astrid’s seat. But they all turned a little sideways and managed. Kennet sat by Emil, who kept patting him all through the meal. Astrid leaned over Kennet’s shoulder and spooned roasted potatoes onto his plate. She’d changed into a navy blue dress with white polka dots. Her hair shone smooth and straight, and her red lipstick smile was warm on Kennet’s face.

He watched the tines of his fork poke through the golden crust of a potato wedge, letting out three miniscule tendrils of steam. He could see the sheen of butter, the little crystals of salt and flecks of pepper. He put it in his mouth.

“Good?” Marta said. “I know they’re your favorite.”

“Perfect,” he said, lying around the tasteless mass in his teeth. “Just what I wanted.”