She went back out into the hall, conscious of all the sounds of the house. Ticking, creaking, tapping, humming.

There were clattering sounds from the kitchen.

She went slowly up the stairs and through the hallway to her childhood bedroom. Everything seemed untouched, preserved from when she still lived at home, as if time had stood still since then.

She continued to her father’s office and opened the door, exhaling in relief when she saw it was empty. She stepped in and looked around at all of the binders, cabinets and drawers. Various reports, shareholder newsletters, statements of accounts and minutes lay on his desk.

She went across the room, opened a cabinet and took out a white binder. It was in its usual spot on the left—she knew this because she had taken it out so many times before. Her father never knew, though; she only went in when he wasn’t home.

She opened the binder and looked at the certificate of her adoption. It had yellowed a bit; it was over twenty years since she’d become a Berzelius, after all.

She remembered the day she had sat in the hallway at the social services office, her eyes locked on her hands lying in her lap.

Now and then, she would raise her hand to touch her neck, where the large bandage was taped.

“Don’t do that, honey,” Beatrice Malm, the social worker, had said when she came out of her office.

“But it itches,” she said.

“Let it itch, then. Just a little while, until they get here.”

Beatrice looked at the clock on the wall.

“This is going to be really great,” she said in an attempt to calm her. But how she said it made Jana’s heart pound harder.

Then they arrived. The man walked in front, the woman three steps behind. His lips were pressed together firmly, but she had a wide smile on her face.

“This is Karl and Margaretha Berzelius,” Beatrice Malm said, looking at her.

She slid down from the chair without looking at them and mumbled a greeting.

“And the papers?” Karl asked.

“Everything is in order. Classified, as you requested.”

“Great.”

Karl turned on his heel toward the elevator.

“Come, sweetheart,” Margaretha said, reaching out her hand toward the little girl. Jana didn’t dare at first, hesitating for a long time before taking her new mother’s hand. It was cool and gentle.

They walked down the hallway and into the elevator.

She lifted her hand toward her hair, but forced it back down when she met the social worker’s eyes through the open elevator doors.

“Take good care of her!”

Those were the last words Jana heard before the elevator doors closed again.

Only then did she lift her hand up all the way and scratch.

* * *