Of course she could have stopped this if she had been thicker skinned, less sensitive about how she was perceived, more analytical in her perspectives on those closest to her. At the time, this had been Jeanette’s wish—to cease to be—and perhaps it ought to be respected. Jeanette no longer owed anybody anything, she no longer had any family or any loved ones that she had moral obligations to. Kerstin and the other friends on the benches were extras in Jeanette’s life. She was the maker of her own happiness, and a dreadful one at that; in her heart and soul she was incapable of being part of a community or feeling genuine joy. Jeanette’s causes for rejoicing lay in the past, and she didn’t want it to be any other way.

Kerstin caressed Jeanette’s cheek and wiped away one of her own tears that had landed on her face. She lifted the covers slightly. Jeanette was beautiful. She had changed clothes since their last meeting a few hours ago, and she was wearing white jeans and a blue and white striped sleeveless blouse. The room around her was tidy, and Kerstin was grateful that Jeanette had chosen to end her life sleeping in bed, rather than dangling from a hook on the ceiling or submerged in a bathtub filled with water. That would have been much more demanding of the person who discovered the tragedy.

Kerstin ran her fingers through Jeanette’s fringe, adjusted the covers, and left the bedroom. What she really wanted to do was sink to the floor and let all the sobs out of her body. Instead she swallowed a few times, wiped her nose, and stepped into the kitchen with a disconsolate and very heavy sigh. Jeanette was gone, and with her a whole era had drawn to a close.

Kerstin’s clouded gaze stopped at the table, where Jeanette had left her mobile. Beside it there was an envelope with the words “To Kerstin Barbenius” on it. Her first impulse was to pocket it to read later, but after some consideration she concluded that this was not something to delay. She rubbed her eyes with her hands, opened the envelope using her thumb, and pulled out the handwritten letter.

Nanna,