Kære Maja,

I'm writing this on a bench by Sankt Hans Torv, which is a thing I do now apparently. Don't tell anyone at the office.

We've been retrofitting the rainwater cisterns under Blågårdsgade — same project as last spring, just slower. But here's the thing I can't stop thinking about: the contractors found a layer of oyster shells about two metres down, from a midden, probably 14th century. The archaeologist they sent is twenty-three and treats the shells like they're made of glass. She sat with me yesterday and explained how you can tell the season someone ate the oyster in by the growth rings. The growth rings, Maja. Of an oyster from before the plague.

I went home and looked at our wall — the photo of Ida on the balcony in Malmö — and thought, in six hundred years someone will dig up the little ceramic sensor I just signed off on and wonder what it measured. Probably nothing they care about. Tell Ida her dad spent a whole Tuesday on a bench because of a shell.

The hydrogen barge on Sortedam was leaking steam again. Smells like a sauna. Some things don't change.

Hils.

A.

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