Maja,

I walked home through Assistens tonight, the long way, and the memorial lanterns had just started their dim-up. They do it slower now since the new ordinance — fifteen minutes instead of two — so you get this strange in-between hour where the trees look lit from inside.

I sat on the bench by Thorvaldsen, the one we used to argue on. Someone had left a small bouquet wrapped in paper. The paper said til min mor, sent. That was all.

I am sentimental tonight, I know. Forgive me. It is the kind of evening that does it.

Ida is sixteen next week. Sixteen. I keep doing the math like the math is going to come out differently. I bought her the cargo bike adapter she asked for — the new quiet one — and I made the kommune approve a stupid little permit at work just to feel like I had moved one thing forward this week.

Tell her I am proud of her. Tell her I will say it in person too, but tell her first, so she hears it twice.

The lanterns are full bright now. I should go in.

Kiss her for me.

A.

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