Olav stops the car and I peer through the windscreen at Mormor’s little cabin on top of the hill. Maybe it’s the shadowy moonlight, but the plants on the roof look like they’ve doubled in size. Lots of rural buildings in Norway have living roofs as insulation, and Mormor is proud of the neat rows of herbs she grows in summer. Now the roof seems overgrown with weeds and there’s even a miniature Christmas tree up there.

A light comes on. Good, she’s still awake. Olav stares at the cabin, wide-eyed. Surely he isn’t going to drop me here, at the end of a dirt track? He rubs a thumb across his lip and looks at the house and back to me. When I don’t say anything, he drives up to the cabin and then points at the house. ‘Mora di, yes?’ I don’t know what he means, but I nod anyway.

We get out of the car and he lifts my rucksack from the back seat. I grab it and we have an awkward tussle as he tries to carry it for me. In the end I hold it to myself with a firm takk. I know how Mormor likes to chat and I want her all to myself.

Olav offers me his bare hand, which I shake. Unable to say much else, I smile and repeat, ‘Takk … takk …’ again and again. I honestly can’t thank him enough. The idea of walking all that way in the dark makes me shudder. He raises his hand and says something else about mora di, then gets into his car and drives away.

Without the lights of the vehicle, the night is that much blacker. I turn to the cabin as a cloud drifts across the moon, throwing it into shadow. Like everything else, it looks different to when I’ve been in summer. Darker and smaller; hunched in on itself. I glance at the weeds rustling on the roof. They make the place seem neglected, abandoned almost.

A mound of logs sits next to the woodshed, waiting to be chopped. I walk past them, then climb the few rickety steps to the porch and knock at the wooden door. An icy drop of rain lands on my face, making me shiver. I wish I’d let Olav see me inside. I knock again, louder this time. Where is Mormor? Even if she was in the bath she should be able to hear. It’s not exactly a big place.

A gust of wind flings grit in my face and I turn away. Then I catch sight of it. The twisted tree. At first it’s just a blurred shape at the bottom of the garden, shaking in the breeze. I squint and its black branches come into focus. It looks even more gnarled and ancient than I remember. I don’t blame the tree for the accident; it was my fault for losing my footing. Even so, seeing it makes me shiver.