that made Ove regret a little not having left her locked up inside the garage while he still had the chance.
He folded up the letter and put it back in the envelope. Held up the photo.
Three children, the oldest a teenager and the others more or less the same age as Parvaneh’s oldest daughter, looked back at him.
Or rather, they weren’t really looking, they were sort of lying about in a pile,
each with a water pistol and apparently laughing until they were practically screaming.
Behind them stood a blond woman of about forty-five, with a wide grin and her arms stretched out
like a large bird of prey and an overflowing plastic bucket in each hand.
At the bottom of the pile lay the man in the gray suit, but wearing a blue polo shirt, and trying in vain to shield himself from the downpour.
Ove threw away the letter along with the advertising, tied up the bag, put it by the front door, went back into the kitchen,
got out a magnet from the bottom drawer, and put up the photo on the fridge.
Right next to the riotous color drawing the three-year-old had made of him on the way back from the hospital.
Ove brushes his hand over the gravestone again, even though he’s already brushed off all the snow that can be brushed off.
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