On the third day her brother receives the letter telling him where to find her.

He drives up to the old manor. Such sunny and cold weather three days in a row! He opens the door and climbs the creaking stairs. Through the glassless windows a golden light falls into the room. There, leaning against the door, she hangs, her feet almost touching the ground. Frozen. The dog’s leather lead has been of no use to her. Right there she has found some electrical wires, which she has thrown over the top hinge of the door. She wanted so much to die on her own. A trickle of clear urine has frozen on the floor below her. Brilliant orange skins lie on the window sill.

That evening, a delighted doctor phones her brother to tell him that there is nothing wrong with his sister, only her kidneys have caught a bit of a chill, she should apply some warmth …

It is a cold winter night. Flowers of ice frost the windows. Her brother sits in Ada’s kitchen rolling an orange on the table. Now and then the refrigerator growls in an otherwise total silence.

Still Life with Death

The clay floor is still cold. It does not warm up even by noon. This spring warmth is fragile. Its touch tender. Like the surface of a deep lake when it begins to yield to the sun. A warmth that quickly vanishes in the humidity of the evening. It is like the light reflected in a cold, feet-numbing current.

A dog dozes on the doorstep, her nose turned to the sun. Her eyelids twitch slightly when the light hits them. She is a docile and pregnant bitch. Now and then something moves in her broad flanks. Something that still enjoys limitless grace.

At this time of the year it is useless to sweep the doorstep. At the slightest breeze it is covered with wind-blown flower petals. White, red and yellow. The bitch’s petal-strewn back slowly moves – up and down with her breath. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

Mia sits on the doorstep, right next to the dog. Elbows on knees, hands clasped, white-knuckled, she gently rocks. Back and forth. Almost imperceptibly, her feet bare, on to her toes, then her heels. Beads of sweat glisten on her forehead; her head aches dully from the fragrance of flowers in the room behind her. This is why she sits on the doorstep.

The edge of the pond can easily be seen from the doorstep. There sits her father. They have agreed not to be together, but to stay within sight. Mia can see – now and then her father gazes across the pond, perhaps at the clouds, now and then he clutches his head with both hands and stares downward.