Kære Trine,

Rain all week here in Sundbyvester. The kind that gets into the stairwells.

They moved Gudrun to Sølund on Tuesday. Ninety-one. I had her for six years. I washed her hair. I know which cupboard the coffee is in. Nobody asked me anything. The route planner just closed her out overnight and put a new address on Vermlandsgade in her place, and when I opened the door on Wednesday morning the flat had already been read by the inventory scan — every drawer catalogued, her good plates flagged as "unclaimed."

I sat down in her chair anyway. Ten minutes. The panel by the door kept telling me the visit was complete.

I am not angry, Trine. That is the part I cannot explain to you. I have been angry about this for twenty years and it has changed nothing except my blood pressure. Now I just do the work. The new man on Vermlandsgade is seventy-eight and frightened of his own lift. He will be fine. I will learn his cupboards.

Your father says hello. My feet hurt.

Send a photo of the sea when it is grey. I like it grey.

Mor

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