Finally, I switch on the bedside lamp and get up. I put on a jumper and slippers and walk into the hall. That’s weird, too, that we never just wear socks indoors here. There are shoes scattered all over the hall floor. I stumble over one of Pekka’s boots. I’d like to switch on the heat pump. The pump and I, we belong to the same world, where there’s light, heat and humming. When I come home, I always press the button straight away and the pump welcomes me. It’s like a homecoming button. The pump beeps and opens up its flaps for me. The home gets going, humming and warming up.

‘Pekka,’ I call out into the stairwell, but there’s no reply.

I climb the creaking stairs that change colour halfway up. The varnished doors of the upstairs landing are shut. They’re always shut; gravity and the wonky house make them close by themselves. A thin strip of light shines out from the girl’s room.

Pekka is asleep on the edge of the girl’s bed. He’s curled up uncomfortably against the wooden side, using his elbow as his pillow, his knees sticking out over the edge. His skin is covered with goose pimples. There he sleeps, a big man without a quilt, on the edge of a red child’s bed all covered with stickers.

And behind Pekka’s back sleeps the girl. She snuffles lightly like a small animal, her face relaxed and ageless. Sometimes people look like babies when they’re asleep, sometimes they appear older and wiser than they are, but the girl seems to combine all ages at the same time.

With her eyes closed and lips slightly parted, she actually looks quite beautiful. By day, she frowns and purses her lips so much that it’s hard even to see her features. Somehow, she lacks joy. I do understand it. Right now, watching her sleep, I see that she simply lacks joy.