- Claude Sonnet 4.5 (extended-thinking) - 94/100 Exceptional literary quality with natural consciousness flow. The details serve psychological purposes—the "mint green pencil case...too expensive but bought anyway" reveals character through gesture. The final paragraph's existential weight ("you could do everything correctly and still feel like you had somehow made a series of wrong turns") achieves genuine emotional complexity. Reads like accomplished literary fiction.
- Claude Opus 4.1 (extended-thinking) - 89/100 Strong narrative consciousness with details that emerge naturally from attention: "emergency twenty-kroner note," the cutting board's "dark stains that wouldn't come out." Excellent use of temporal markers ("four thousand times, five thousand") creates rhythm. The Andersens' window observation adds psychological depth. Ends appropriately mid-scene without false closure.
- mistral-large-123b - 83/100 Solid literary execution with good sensory grounding. The "not quite affection, not quite resentment" captures relationship complexity economically. Details like Maja's drawings reveal character through observation. Some repetitive sections in the middle, but maintains emotional weight throughout. Competent mid-novel consciousness.
- qwen2.5-72b - 82/100 Readable and well-structured with natural dialogue flow. Good mundane specificity (the Fuji apples, soccer game discussion). Family dynamics emerge clearly through conversation. Slightly more conventional in approach—emotions sometimes explained rather than embodied—but maintains narrative momentum and avoids major pitfalls.
- ChatGPT 5 (thinking) - 80/100 Impressive technical specificity that mostly serves purpose. The "2700K glow" and brand details occasionally feel like showing off, but consciousness flow is present. Strong ending with the calendar metaphor. The self-aware moment ("she does not want to go off into imagery") adds meta-layer. Borders on exhausting enumeration but pulls back enough.
- phi4-reasoning-plus - 78/100 Good observational detail work with moments of genuine insight. The photograph opening and rust "nibbling" at the pot show literary attention. However, feels slightly more distant/observational than fully inhabited. Direct dialogue is minimal. Trails off without much emotional resolution. Solid but doesn't fully achieve immersive consciousness.
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Tournament-style evaluation of LLM narrative prose submissions
The kitchen smelled of onions and the slightly metallic scent of raw chicken, and Thomas had his back to her, the blue-and-white striped dishcloth tucked into his belt loop the way he always did, though she had bought him an apron three Christmases ago. Maja was at the table doing homework, her pencil case—the mint green one with the unicorn zipper pull that Ingrid had thought was too expensive but bought anyway—laid out with the pens arranged by color, dark to light. Simen's door was closed upstairs. The sound of something with a heavy beat leaked through, not music exactly, more like the ghost of music, rhythm without melody.
"How was she?" Thomas said, not turning around.
"The same."
Which wasn't true or wasn't entirely true, her mother had seemed smaller today, the skin of her hands almost translucent under the fluorescent light of the common room, and she had asked twice who Ingrid was, not in a distressed way but with a kind of mild curiosity, as if Ingrid were a distant acquaintance whose name she couldn't quite place. But to say this would require more energy than Ingrid had, would require her to shape the experience into something communicable, and anyway Thomas was dicing the chicken now with quick decisive movements, the knife hitting the cutting board in a rhythm that made conversation feel intrusive.
Ingrid put her bag on the chair. The zipper was broken—had been broken since May or June, she couldn't remember—and the mouth of it gaped open showing her wallet, her mother's medication schedule that the nurse had updated, a half-eaten package of digestive biscuits. She should get a new bag. She had been thinking this for months.
"Can you help me with number seven?" Maja said, and Ingrid moved to stand behind her daughter's chair, looking down at the math worksheet, fractions, the numbers swimming slightly because she still had her distance glasses on and she needed to switch to her reading ones but they were in her bag and her bag was on the other chair and the effort of retrieving them felt enormous.
"What's the question?"
"I did it already but I want to know if it's right."
The answer was correct. Ingrid could see this immediately, but she made herself check the working, following Maja's neat pencil strokes, the numbers aligned in perfect columns. Everything was correct. Everything was always correct with Maja.
"It's right," Ingrid said.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
Maja erased something anyway, her small shoulders hunched over the page, then wrote the same number back in again, slightly darker this time.
Thomas was at the stove now, the oil popping as he added the chicken, and Ingrid felt she should offer to help, to do something, but the kitchen was small and he had his own system and she would only be in the way. She sat down instead at the place that was hers, the chair that faced the window, though the window now showed nothing but the reflection of the kitchen, the four of them—three of them—suspended in the dark glass like figures in a photograph someone had forgotten to take.
Her mother had held her hand today. Or Ingrid had held her mother's hand, she wasn't sure which way it had gone, the initiation was blurred in her memory already though it had happened only two hours ago. The hand had been cool and dry and very light, and her mother had been talking about the boat, the boat from her childhood that her father had owned, the one that had been sold decades ago, before Ingrid was born even, and she had been quite animated, almost happy, describing the color of the paint and the way the motor sounded, and Ingrid had let her talk, had not corrected her when she referred to Ingrid as "Mother," had just sat there holding the hand and making the small noises of agreement that seemed to be all that was required.
"Can I have screen time after dinner?" Maja said.
"It's Thursday."
"I know but I finished all my homework and I did my reading and—"
"The rule is weekends only."
"But Emma gets—"
"I don't care what Emma gets."
The sharpness in her own voice surprised Ingrid, and Maja's face did something complicated, not quite closing but retreating somehow, and Ingrid wanted to take it back, the harshness, wanted to say something softening, but Thomas was asking about rice or potatoes and Maja was already back to her worksheet, erasing something else that didn't need erasing, and the moment for repair had passed or maybe had never existed.
Upstairs the bass line continued its muffled thump.
Thomas added cream to the pan and the smell changed, became richer, and Ingrid realized she was hungry though she had no memory of what she had eaten today. Toast this morning. Nothing at lunch. The coffee at the care home from the machine that dispensed cups pre-filled with sugar and milk, no option to adjust, the coffee she drank anyway because the nurse had brought it and it would have seemed ungrateful to refuse.
"Did you mark the essays?" Thomas said.
She had not marked the essays. The essays were in her office, sixteen of them, on Ibsen's "Ghosts," most of them dull and derivative, a few showing flashes of actual thought. She would mark them this weekend. Or Sunday. Sunday evening probably, that rising panic of Monday morning approaching, the way time worked differently on Sunday evenings, became viscous and fast simultaneously.
"Not yet," she said.
Maja filled in another answer, her tongue visible between her teeth, a habit from childhood that she hadn't outgrown, and Ingrid watched her daughter's careful hand and felt something that wasn't quite love or wasn't only love, something more like recognition or dread, this small person who was so determined to get everything right, and Ingrid wanted to tell her it didn't matter, the fractions, the neat columns, none of it mattered really, but of course it did matter, that was the thing, it mattered and it didn't matter, and there was no way to explain this to an eleven-year-old, no way to say that you could do everything correctly and still feel like you had somehow made a series of wrong turns, except there were no wrong turns because there had been no decision points, just one thing following another following another until you were forty-two and standing in your own kitchen not helping your husband make dinner while your daughter worried over her homework and your son listened to whatever he listened to behind his closed door and your mother forgot your name under fluorescent lights.
Thomas was setting the table now, moving around her, and she shifted her chair slightly to give him room.
The hallway smelled of wet wool and the faint synthetic cherry of Maja's lip gloss, which she wasn't supposed to own but did, hidden in the inside pocket of her school bag next to the emergency twenty-kroner note Ingrid had put there in September. Thomas had the radio on in the kitchen, that program with the two journalists who disagreed about everything in carefully modulated tones. She could hear the knife on the cutting board, steady, competent. Carrots probably. He always started with carrots.
"Is that you?" Not really a question.
She hung her coat on the third peg from the left, the one that had been loose for two years now, that wiggled when you put any weight on it but hadn't yet fallen out of the wall. Her mother had asked the same nurse three times about the yellow blanket, whether it was hers, whether someone had taken it, whether it needed washing. Each time the nurse—Berit, her nametag said Berit in rounded letters—had answered with the same practiced patience that yes, it was hers, no, nobody had taken it, it had been washed on Tuesday.
"The traffic was—" But Thomas wasn't really listening, she could tell from the angle of his shoulders, the particular way he held his head when he was thinking about something else. Navy sweater, the one from Dressman that she'd bought him three Christmases ago. Four Christmases. The overhead light caught the places where the wool had started to pill.
Maja's door was closed but light leaked out underneath, that peculiar blue-white of her desk lamp, the LED one they'd bought at IKEA when she'd complained about headaches. Simen's door was open exactly halfway, which meant he was in there but didn't want to be disturbed but also didn't want to seem like he didn't want to be disturbed. The elaborate negotiations of fourteen. She could see one socked foot hanging off his bed, gray with a hole starting at the big toe.
In the kitchen Thomas had moved on to onions. White onions, two of them, halved and then sliced into precise half-moons that fell away from the knife in identical curves. The cutting board was the bamboo one, eighteen months old, already showing those dark stains that wouldn't come out no matter how much you scrubbed. He'd rolled his sleeves up to just below the elbow, three turns of the cuff, the way he always did.
"Your mother?"
"The same."
Which wasn't true exactly, because nothing was the same, each day was a specific kind of deterioration, today it was the blanket but yesterday it had been whether her father was coming to pick her up and he'd been dead since 2003, the year they'd renovated the bathroom, the year Maja had learned to walk, gripping the edge of the old coffee table that they'd gotten rid of when she'd split her lip on the corner.
"I thought we could have the salmon tonight but it didn't look—" Thomas scraped the onions into the pan with the back of the knife, that practiced gesture she'd watched four thousand times, five thousand. "So it's the mince instead."
The oil sizzled and spat. She opened the refrigerator, the middle shelf where they kept the white wine, the Grüner Veltliner that had been on sale at Vinmonopolet, 20% off if you bought six bottles. They had four left. No, three. The glass was cold in her hand, one of the set from the wedding, only four of the original eight surviving. She'd broken one washing up. Thomas had broken two, though he claimed one didn't count because it had already had a crack.
"Maja has that presentation tomorrow."
"The Vikings?"
"The suffrage movement."
Right. She'd helped her print the photographs last weekend, Gina Krog and Fredrikke Marie Qvam in their high collars and serious expressions, the parade in 1913, all those hats. Maja had worried about the resolution, whether you could see their faces clearly enough, whether the teacher would mark her down for using black and white instead of color, as if there had been color photography in 1913.
She took a sip of wine. It tasted like aluminum and grass. Through the window, the Andersens' kitchen light was on, that warm yellow rectangle in the growing dark. They were probably eating already. They always ate at five-thirty, you could set your watch by it. Sometimes she saw them through their window, passing dishes, the husband reaching for something, the wife standing up, sitting down, ordinary gestures that seemed impossibly foreign, like watching animals in a documentary.
"Did you stop at the store?"
She hadn't. She'd meant to. The list was still in her pocket, her handwriting in blue pen: milk, bread (the dark one), bananas (not too ripe), toilet paper. But after the care facility, after the parking garage with its nauseating fluorescent lights, after the elevator that shuddered between the second and third floors, she'd simply driven home, taking the long way past the harbor where the seagulls stood on the pier posts like they were waiting for something.
Ingrid steps into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind her with a soft finality. The scent of frying onions envelops her, Thomas’s signature beginning to any meal worth its salt. She slips off her shoes, the cold tiles seeping through her socks, reminding her of the chill outside that has begun to bite into everything. Her coat, damp from the drizzle, feels heavy as she hangs it on the peg, the fabric rustling like a whisper of the weather she left behind.
The kitchen is awash in the buttery glow of the overhead light, casting long shadows that dance with the steam rising from the stove. Thomas stands there, his back to her, stirring something in the pan. His shoulders are slightly hunched, a familiar posture when he’s deep in thought or absorbed in a task. She watches him for a moment, the way his hand moves rhythmically, the spatula scraping against the metal with a gentle, repetitive sound. A pang of something—not quite affection, not quite resentment—stirs within her.
“You’re back,” Thomas says without turning around, his voice flat, almost disinterested. Ingrid nods, then realizes he can't see her and murmurs a soft "yes." She steps further into the kitchen, feeling the warmth of the room wrap around her like a blanket. The clock above the stove ticks loudly, its hands pointing to half past six.
“How was she?” Thomas asks, still not looking at her. Ingrid sighs, her mind flashing back to Astrid’s frail form in the hospital bed, the room filled with the sterile smell of antiseptic and the quiet hum of machinery. The memory clings to her like a damp cloth, heavy and uncomfortable.
“The same,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “They think she might be able to come home in a few weeks, but...” Her sentence trails off, unfinished, hanging in the air like the steam from the stove. Thomas nods, his back still turned, and Ingrid wonders if he’s really listening or just going through the motions of conversation.
She turns her attention to the kitchen table, cluttered with papers and books. Simen's math homework is scattered across one end, the equations scrawled in his hasty, slanted handwriting. Maja’s carefully colored drawings are neatly stacked beside it, each page a testament to her meticulousness. Ingrid reaches out, tracing the lines of Maja’s latest creation—a detailed rendering of their backyard, complete with the old apple tree and the swing that Simen had long since abandoned.
Her fingers linger on the paper, feeling the texture, the slight roughness where the colored pencils have layered too thickly. She thinks about Maja’s anxious little face, the way her brows furrow when she concentrates, how she checks and double-checks every line before moving on to the next. A surge of both pride and worry washes over Ingrid, a familiar mix that seems to define her motherhood these days.
“Maja,” she calls out softly, hearing the faint shuffling from upstairs. “Dinner’s almost ready.” There's no response, just the continued rustle of papers and the quiet hum of Maja’s thoughts. Ingrid sighs, knowing that her daughter will emerge eventually, when everything is just right.
She turns to Simen’s homework next, her eyes scanning the equations without really understanding them. Numbers have never been her strength; words are her domain, her comfort zone. She thinks about Simen, how he’s growing more distant by the day, his silence a wall she can’t seem to breach. The thought gnaws at her, a persistent ache that she can't quite pinpoint or ease.
Thomas sets a plate down in front of her with a soft clink, pulling her back from her thoughts. The meal is simple—sauteed chicken with vegetables and rice—but it’s comforting in its familiarity. She picks up her fork, the metal cool against her fingers, and begins to eat mechanically, each bite a routine she doesn’t need to think about.
“Simen,” Thomas calls out, his voice echoing through the house. “Dinner.” There's a pause, then the distant thud of a door closing and the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. Simen appears in the doorway, his hair tousled, his eyes tired but alert. He slumps into his chair without a word, his gaze fixed on his plate as if it holds all the answers he’s been searching for.
Ingrid watches him, her heart aching with a mix of love and frustration. She wants to reach out, to bridge the gap that seems to widen every day, but she doesn't know how. The silence at the table is thick, punctuated only by the clink of cutlery against plates and the occasional rustle of papers as Maja finally joins them, her eyes darting nervously between her plate and her drawings.
“How was school today?” Ingrid asks, her voice sounding too bright, too forced even to her own ears. Simen shrugs, his eyes never leaving his food. Maja looks up briefly, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth before she returns to her meticulous eating, each bite carefully measured and chewed.
Ingrid feels a pang of guilt, knowing that she’s failing them somehow, that there’s something more she should be doing, saying. But what? The question hangs in her mind, unanswered, as she continues to eat, the food turning tasteless in her mouth. She thinks about Astrid again, about the way her mother’s eyes had flickered with recognition before clouding over once more. About the endless corridors of the care facility, the quiet despair that seemed to seep from every corner.
She looks at Thomas, his face impassive as he eats, and wonders if he feels it too—this sense of disconnection, this growing awareness that something is slipping away. But he doesn’t look up, doesn’t seem to notice her scrutiny, and Ingrid feels a surge of resentment mixed with longing. She wants him to see her, to understand without her having to explain, but at the same time, she knows it’s unfair to expect so much from him.
The meal continues in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts, their own worlds. Ingrid feels the weight of it all pressing down on her, the responsibilities and worries that seem to multiply with each passing day. She thinks about the students she’ll face tomorrow, their eager faces and endless questions, and wonders if she has anything left to give them. If she ever did.
Finally, Simen pushes his chair back with a scrape, standing up without a word. He disappears upstairs, leaving behind an emptiness that feels almost physical. Maja follows suit a moment later, her steps lighter, her eyes still darting nervously as if afraid to miss something important.
Ingrid looks at Thomas, who meets her gaze briefly before looking away again. There’s a tension between them, unspoken but palpable, and Ingrid feels a sudden urge to break it, to say something—anything—that might bridge the gap. But she doesn’t know what to say, how to start, so she remains silent, her thoughts spinning in endless circles.
Thomas begins clearing the table, his movements efficient and practiced. Ingrid watches him for a moment before standing up to help, their hands brushing briefly as they reach for the same plate. The contact is fleeting but electric, sending a jolt through her that leaves her feeling both exhilarated and drained.
They work in silence, the clatter of dishes and the hum of the dishwasher filling the void between them. Ingrid thinks about all the things she wants to say, all the questions she wants to ask, but they remain locked inside her, unspoken and heavy. She wonders if this is what it means to grow old together—this quiet resignation, this silent understanding that some things are better left unsaid.
As they finish cleaning up, Ingrid feels a profound sense of weariness wash over her. It’s not just the physical exhaustion from the day but something deeper, more pervasive. A tiredness of the soul, she thinks, remembering a line from one of her favorite poems. She wonders if this is what her mother felt, all those years ago, when life seemed to stretch out before her like an endless road with no clear destination.
She turns off the kitchen light, casting the room into shadowy darkness, and makes her way upstairs. The house is quiet now, filled only with the soft murmurs of their separate lives. Ingrid pauses outside Simen’s door, listening to the muffled sounds of his music, before moving on to Maja’s room. She peeks inside, seeing her daughter curled up in bed, her drawings scattered around her like a protective shield.
Ingrid feels a surge of love so intense it almost hurts, and she has to resist the urge to go in, to gather Maja into her arms and hold her close. Instead, she turns away, leaving her daughter to her dreams, and makes her way to her own room. Thomas is already there, sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to her as he undresses.
She watches him for a moment, feeling that familiar mix of affection and resentment, before beginning her own nightly ritual. As she slips into bed beside him, she feels the warmth of his body next to hers, a comforting presence in the darkness. She thinks about all the things they haven’t said, all the questions left unanswered, and wonders if it will ever be enough.
As sleep begins to claim her, Ingrid’s thoughts drift back to Astrid, to Simen and Maja, to Thomas beside her. She feels a profound sense of longing—not for something specific but for something more, something she can't quite name or grasp. And with that thought, she slips into dreams, leaving the unanswered questions for another day.
Ingrid pushed open the front door, a gust of cold air following her inside. The house smelled of thyme and garlic, Thomas's attempt at something comforting after a long day. She hung her coat on the rack by the door, the wooden pegs creaking under its weight. Her feet felt heavy in their boots as she stepped into the kitchen.
Thomas was at the stove, his back to her, stirring a pot with one hand while flipping through a dog-eared cookbook with the other. The sleeves of his navy sweater were pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms that still retained some muscle from his days as a rugby player. Ingrid couldn't remember the last time she had seen him wear this particular sweater, probably last winter. It was one of those items that had become so familiar it seemed almost like an extension of him.
"Hey," she said, her voice sounding small in the quiet of the house.
Thomas turned, a smile spreading across his face. "You're back. How is Astrid?"
Ingrid sighed, leaning against the counter. "The same. The nurses say she's stable, but there's no improvement. She just...lies there."
Thomas nodded, his eyes softening with understanding. He returned to stirring the pot, the spoon clinking softly against the metal. Ingrid watched him for a moment, the way he moved so methodically, as if cooking could somehow bring order to the chaos of their lives. The kitchen was warm, the light from the overhead fixture casting everything in a soft, golden glow. On the counter, next to the stove, sat a bowl of apples—Fuji, her favorite, still crisp and red.
"Did you get my message about Simen's soccer game?" Thomas asked, his voice breaking into her thoughts.
Ingrid nodded, reaching for an apple. "Yes, I saw it. He didn't play much, though. The coach seems to have a thing against him."
Thomas frowned, turning off the stove and setting the spoon down with a clatter. "That's not fair. Simen's been working hard. Maybe we should talk to the coach."
Ingrid took a bite of the apple, the juice bursting in her mouth. She chewed slowly, savoring the sweetness. "Maybe," she said finally. "But it's just one game. He'll be fine."
Thomas opened his mouth to say something more but stopped, his gaze shifting to the living room where Maja was sprawled on the floor with a pile of books and papers. She had her headphones on, her feet tucked under her, a look of intense concentration on her face.
"How was your day?" Ingrid asked, changing the subject as she moved to set the table.
"Busy," Thomas replied, reaching for a stack of plates from the cupboard. "Planning meetings all afternoon. The new park project is moving forward, but there are still some zoning issues."
Ingrid nodded, placing a fork next to each plate with precise movements. She had always admired Thomas's ability to focus on his work, even in the midst of personal turmoil. It was one of the things that had drawn her to him years ago, along with his quiet confidence and sense of humor. But lately, she found herself wondering if it was a strength or a way of avoiding the more difficult parts of life.
Maja looked up as Ingrid passed by, pulling off her headphones. "Hi, Mom," she said, her voice tinged with the anxiety that had become all too familiar over the past year. "Did Grandma have a good day?"
Ingrid forced a smile, trying to make it look genuine. "She did. The nurses say she's doing as well as can be expected."
Maja nodded, her eyes flicking back down to her homework. Ingrid watched her for a moment, feeling a pang of guilt. She knew Maja was struggling with the changes in their family, but she had been so caught up in her own worries that she hadn't given her daughter enough attention. It was easier to focus on Thomas's work or Simen's soccer games than to confront the fear and uncertainty that seemed to hover over everything.
"Where's Simen?" Ingrid asked, setting a glass of water next to each plate.
"He went out with some friends," Maja replied, her voice almost too casual. "Said he'd be back for dinner."
Ingrid frowned, wondering if this was true or just an excuse to avoid the tension at home. She had noticed Simen becoming increasingly distant over the past few months, spending more time alone in his room or with friends. It was as if he was trying to create a buffer between himself and the world outside.
Thomas placed a steaming dish on the table, the aroma of thyme and garlic filling the kitchen. "Dinner's ready," he announced, pulling out a chair for Ingrid.
Ingrid sat down, her mind drifting back to the hospital. The sterile smell of disinfectant, the beeping of machines, the way Astrid lay so still in her bed. She had held her mother's hand, feeling the coldness of it, the fragility. It was a reminder of how quickly things could change, how precarious life could be.
"Mom?" Maja's voice broke into her thoughts. "Are you okay?"
Ingrid forced herself to smile again, reaching for a piece of bread. "I'm fine, sweetheart. Just thinking."
Maja nodded, her eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to read something in Ingrid's expression. But she didn't press further, instead turning back to her homework.
Thomas reached across the table and squeezed Ingrid's hand. His touch was warm, reassuring. For a moment, it felt like everything might be all right. But the feeling was fleeting, and as they began to eat, the silence between them grew thicker, more oppressive.
Ingrid took another bite of the stew, letting the flavors wash over her. The thyme reminded her of summers spent in her grandmother's garden, picking herbs for dinner. It was a simple, comforting thought, but it didn't dispel the sense of loss that lingered just beneath the surface. She looked around the table at her family—Thomas, Maja, and the empty chair where Simen should have been—and felt a deep, unnameable ache.
"Did you hear about the new exhibit at the gallery?" Thomas asked, his voice breaking the silence like a splash of cold water.
Ingrid shook her head, trying to focus on the conversation. "No, what is it?"
"Some local artists are showing their work. I thought we could go this weekend," he said, his tone hopeful.
"That sounds nice," Ingrid replied, though she wasn't sure if she really meant it. The idea of stepping out into the world, pretending that everything was normal, felt almost unbearable.
Maja looked up from her homework, a rare smile crossing her face. "Can I go too?"
Ingrid and Thomas exchanged a look. It was a small thing, but in that moment, it felt like a ray of light breaking through the clouds. Maybe, just maybe, they could find some way to navigate this new terrain together.
"Of course," Ingrid said, her voice softer now. "We'll all go."
Maja's smile widened, and she went back to her homework with renewed energy. Ingrid watched her for a moment longer, feeling a mixture of relief and something else—something she couldn't quite name. It was as if the act of making plans, however small, had created a fragile bridge between them, a way to hold onto each other in the midst of uncertainty.
The rest of dinner passed in a blur of conversation and silence, of shared glances and unspoken thoughts. When it was over, Ingrid helped clear the table, her movements mechanical but somehow comforting. As she rinsed the dishes and placed them in the dishwasher, she allowed herself to drift back into the rhythm of their lives, the mundane details that made up the fabric of their days.
Outside, the sky had darkened, the trees swaying gently in the wind. Ingrid paused by the window, her hand resting on the cold glass. The world outside was vast and indifferent, but inside this small house, there were moments of connection, of love, that kept them grounded. It was enough, for now.
The hallway air has that faint, sour weight it gets when shoes have dried there all day and someone left a damp wool scarf over the radiator. The LED strip above the kitchen worktop throws a steady 2700K glow. Thomas has the extractor fan on level two. It hums with a low note that creeps under everything else. He is cutting a pale yellow onion on the Fiskars board with the orange rim. His left foot points straight ahead. The right one angles out. He does that when he’s been standing a while. On the induction hob the large OBH Nordica pot is starting to click as steam collects under the lid. Potatoes in salted water, skins on, thin brown ring around the edges where they’ve rubbed against the pot.
She hangs her Bergans jacket on the back of a chair instead of the hook. The cuff is damp from the bus seat. There is a faint smell of hospital disinfectant still clinging to the jacket lining. Chlorine with a touch of something floral that doesn’t succeed. She presses her tongue to her teeth to see if the taste is still there. It is.
“Hi,” Thomas says without turning. “How was—”
“Fine,” she says, and he nods. Knife down, hand wipes on the blue IKEA dish towel that has lost its shape after too many hot washes. He puts the onion in a small glass bowl. His hands move like they’ve done this many times. Onion, then garlic. He has laid out the jar of capers from Eldorado, the little 100 g one with the thin brine. A lemon with a sticker that says Spain. Butter softening in a saucer. A small bunch of dill in the plastic cup from the store, rubber band still on.
Simen is at the table with the Chromebook open. The school-issued one with a hairline crack at the hinge that never gets worse and never goes away. Earbuds in. The screen shows a Google Doc with single-spaced lines and the default Calibri, a pale blue cursor waiting mid-sentence. He looks up, nods once, and looks down again. Maja is on the floor on her stomach, poster board in front of her, pencils arranged by color and length, the Staedtler tin open, shavings in a neat pile on a receipt from Kiwi. She wears a grey hoodie from H&M with the cuffs pulled over her hands. She has printed out a picture of a lynx and is tracing the outline onto the poster using the window as a lightbox earlier; the line is faint and smooth.
“Grandma?” Maja asks. Still not looking up. The “a” drags slightly.
“She was awake,” Ingrid says. “We listened to the radio.” It was NRK P1 with a call-in about winter tires. The caller from Tromsø talked about studs versus friction tires. Astrid nodded at the word “forecast” as if recognition were a thing that could be touched.
Ingrid’s tote bag is heavy with things that do not require thinking: a Tine yogurt with cloudberry that she forgot to eat, a copy of Aftenposten folded to a page about municipal budgets, today’s student essays with paperclips in the top left corner, a pen she stole from the care facility incidentally because it was already in her hand when the nurse touched her elbow. The essays are on “narrative distance.” She wrote that phrase on the board in black marker and kept looking at it, the way the words sit side by side without touching. She knows that is just how words are.
“Did she know you?” Thomas asks, not as a test, just as a query necessary as temperature checks. He still doesn’t turn.
“Mostly,” she says. The window above the sink shows a strip of sky that has gone from grey to that late October flatness. Not blue, not black. Streetlamp light reflected faintly in the bottom corner of the glass, the cheap double glazing making a second ghost of the bulb. She registers the thought and sets it aside because she does not want to go off into imagery. She reaches for a glass and fills it half with Solo from a two-liter bottle, cap not fully tight. The fizz is small. She takes a sip and it is sweeter than she expects. She takes another sip because she started.
“Charger?” Simen says without removing an earbud. “Do we have the long one? Mine is, like—” He holds his hands apart, realizes that gives no information about a cable, and stops.
“In the drawer,” she says. “The messy one.” He gets up, slides open the drawer that sticks halfway and then gives, revealing batteries (some new, some old), two tape measures, a packet of tealight candles from Rusta, a Nest thermostat screwdriver, a roll of white thread, rubber bands that have aged into brittleness, the long Apple cable with the woven sleeve that was expensive and has held up. He takes it and does not say thanks, or says it very quietly and she chooses not to decide.
Thomas sprinkles salt with two fingers into the pan where he has added butter. The butter foams and clears. He lays in the cod, four pieces, slightly translucent still at the center. He learned to cook this from an online video he watched at lunch at his desk at the office, where he keeps a packet of Wasa crispbread and a jar of Nora raspberry jam that he eats with a spoon when meetings go long, his colleagues pretending not to notice. The fish snaps lightly when it hits the heat. In the corner of the counter, the Moccamaster sits empty, filter basket damp from the afternoon brew she made before leaving for the bus to the facility. On top of the fridge, a roll of kitchen paper half-crushed on one end because someone lifted a heavy pot and let it rest there without looking.
“Don’t forget I need cardboard,” Maja says into the floor. “For the backing. We said. We need it.” She does not say “tomorrow,” but it is implied, as sharp as a date.
“I’ll find some,” Ingrid says. She thinks of the recycling room downstairs and the flattened IKEA MALM drawer packaging folded behind the bin. The cardboard has those thin corrugations that bend without warning, but it will do. She imagines cutting it with the box cutter that ended up in the messy drawer and always surprises with its sharpness.
From the living room the TV murmurs, not watched. The remote is face down on the sofa arm, the fabric pilling where a cat used to scratch before they rehomed it because of Simen’s allergies that came and went but did not go enough. On the coffee table: a clear plastic cup with dried apple juice at the bottom, a copy of Klassekampen with oil on the front page, a pale green ceramic bowl from Bolia with three clementines, two blemished. Someone has peeled a strip of one and left it curled like a ribbon. She hears her own mind doing it again—no, not images. Just items.
“Ingrid,” Thomas says, finally turning. “You ate?” He is not doubting the plan but cataloging variables. He has a municipal planner’s mind, she has told him. It is not a compliment or an insult. It is a fact.
“No,” she says. “I’ll eat.”
He nods, presses the lemon half over the fish, the seed catches on his thumb. He pulls it off and drops it in the sink strainer where other seeds have congregated, brownish and slippery. The dill he chops quickly and unevenly. The capers go in with their brine. The smell lifts. He reaches for plates. White, thin, slightly scratched. He plates the potatoes with the skin slightly split and the steam showing itself. The peas come from a small saucepan; they are from Rema’s own brand and they are too soft because he starts them too early, every time, and no one corrects him because it is not a thing one corrects if one wants dinner handed to them without conflict.
“Dad, can I—” Simen begins, then stops, then: “Never mind.” He plugs the cable into the side of the Chromebook with a small click that both satisfies and irritates. He types something. She can see the words “argumentative claim” on his screen. He flips to another tab, chat in the corner with blue bubbles and one grey that says “Seen.” He flips back. A muscle at his jaw clicks when he swallows. She remembers his first tooth coming in, the fever that night, a wet sheet, a sticky bowl of mashed banana he refused.
“Math test moved,” Maja says. “Monday. So… yeah.” The pencil tap speeds up. She erases a section that looks perfectly fine. The odor of the white Staedtler block eraser is like new shoes.
“Okay,” Ingrid says. She thinks: I need to email Marit about Friday’s seminar. She thinks: the checkbook? do we still have one? She thinks: the sound the nurse’s shoes make on linoleum is not part of my life and yet it is now. She thinks: Astrid’s hands look like my hands will look. She thinks: don’t do that. She looks at the calendar on the wall, cheap paper, June picture still there with a fjord and a red boathouse, because no one turned it after July, then August, then September, and now it is late October and the days are wrong when you look up. She does not change it now because dinner is being plated and the fork drawer is open and light lies flat on the sink.
They eat at the table. The chairs scrape, and she registers the fact that one leg on Maja’s chair is slightly shorter and rocks unless positioned just so. The salt grinder is from IKEA, dark wood, and it leaves small white powder circles when someone sets it down hard. They do not say anything for a few minutes, and it is not heavy. It is just what it is. The fish flakes, the sauce is a little too sharp with lemon and she likes it that way tonight.
Thomas says, “I’m thinking of taking the car to work tomorrow. Need to go to a site. Out past the ring road.”
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll take the bus.” She thinks of the bus’s warm air that dries your eyes, the way the driver keeps a hand on the wheel at the bottom, the smell of winter coats not yet washed. She is careful not to shape it like something else.
Simen says, “Are we—um, Sunday—are we going to Grandma’s again?” He looks at the table when he says it.
“Yes,” she says. “If you want.” She makes the “if” real. He nods and pokes at a potato and eats it without butter because he doesn’t like the slickness. He will later make a sandwich with kneippbrød and Norvegia and stand at the counter to eat it in three even bites, not now.
Maja says, “Can you sign the thing?” She produces a permission slip crumpled to half its size and smooths it with her palm. The ink is pale from the school printer. The line for signature is too close to the edge. She finds the pen from the care facility in her tote and signs her name quickly without looking at it. The pen writes smoothly.
The dishwasher takes plates with a regular clack. She fills the compartment with Finish powder that cakes at the edges and always spills a little in the gap. Thomas loads wrong, bowls facing too straight forward, and she shifts one without comment. He pretends not to notice. The extractor fan goes off. The room snaps quieter. Outside, a car door closes. The neighbor upstairs walks across their floor with their steady, heavy stride, heel then toe. The LED strip still gives the same light.
Ingrid stands at the sink and looks at the water run clear then clouded with soap, then clear again. She puts her hands under it and then takes them out. She dries them on the blue towel with the warped shape. Somewhere between the room and the day there is a small gap that does not ask to be closed. She picks up a potato skin from the board and drops it in the bin. The lid thumps back, light plastic, clean. In the next room, the TV is still murmuring about weather on the E6 and studs versus friction, and Astrid nods again in Ingrid’s head at the word “forecast,” and then that thought goes quiet without a conclusion. The window shows nothing but their faces, and then the room behind their faces, and then just the LED, steady.
The hallway light is a single 12‑watt LED that flickers a fraction when the switch is pressed, a faint pulse that matches the rhythm of her steps on the cheap laminate floor. She hangs her coat on the brass hook that Thomas bought at a flea market three years ago, the metal cold under her palm, a thin line of rust at the base. The coat is a dark wool blend, the inside lined with a thin layer of recycled polyester that scratches against her forearm as she slides it off.
The smell of carrots and potatoes simmering in a Tefal steel‑cooking pan drifts from the kitchen, a thin, salty vapor that curls around the doorway. She can see the steam rising in a steady column, the condensation gathering on the glass of the window above the sink, droplets forming a pattern that follows the angle of the late‑afternoon light. The light is pale, almost gray, filtered through a thin veil of cloud that makes the world look flat, the shadows of the maple tree outside reduced to a single smear on the brick wall.
Thomas is at the stove, his back to her, the curve of his shoulders caught in the blue light of the Philips Hue bulb that he set to “warm” after the last winter. He flips the onions with a wooden spoon that has a splinter in the handle, a splinter he never mentioned, the wood darkened by years of heat. His shirt is a plain white cotton, the hem frayed at the cuffs, a small stain of sauce near the left pocket that he hasn't bothered to wash out. The sound of the spoon striking the pan is a soft thud, a rhythm that repeats every few seconds.
She puts her bag down on the small oak side table, the fabric of the bag a faded navy canvas, the strap slipping off the metal hook and landing in a heap. Inside the bag is a stack of papers, a half‑finished lecture on Ibsen, a notebook with the word “Kjærlighet” underlined twice, a receipt from the pharmacy dated two days ago, a tiny bottle of hand lotion, the cap cracked.
“Did you get the thing from the pharmacy?” Simen asks without looking up from his phone, his voice flat, the screen reflecting the light off his face. The phone is an iPhone 13, the case a matte black silicone that shows a faint wear line on the bottom edge.
“Yes,” she says, and the word hangs for a moment before she continues, “they gave me a new prescription.” The sentence is cut short by the clink of a glass as Thomas sets a mug down on the table. The mug is a teal ceramic, the glaze slightly chipped on the rim, the handle worn smooth where his thumb rests.
Maja appears at the doorway, hair pulled back into a loose braid, a pair of pink sneakers on her feet, the laces untied. She carries a stack of worksheets from school, the top sheet a math problem about fractions, the numbers printed in a bold sans‑serif font. “I need to finish this before dinner,” she says, and the words trail off as she spots the unfinished soup on the stove.
Thomas turns, the back of his head still turned, his hair a short, peppered cut that catches the light in a way that makes the silver strands visible. “Okay,” he says, and his voice carries a low hum of fatigue, the kind that comes after a long day of meetings about zoning and permits. He lifts the lid of the pan, the steam spilling out in a thin plume that catches the light and disappears.
Ingrid watches the steam, watches the way it fills the kitchen, the way it touches the surface of the table and evaporates. She thinks about the way the steam used to be a signal for her mother, Astrid, that the meal was ready, that the day was ending, that she should come to the table. She thinks about the moment in the care facility when Astrid’s hand was warm, the texture of the blanket on her lap, the way the nurse had adjusted the pillow. The memory does not have an emotional label attached, it is just a sequence of sensations.
She hears the distant hum of traffic on the main road, a low, constant rumble that vibrates through the thin walls of the apartment building. The sound is filtered by the double‑glazed windows, the glass slightly frosted from the cold that has settled in the air. She feels the chill on the back of her neck, a small draft slipping through the gap where the kitchen door meets the hallway, a sliver of cold that makes her pull the sweater tighter around her shoulders. The sweater is a faded blue knit, the wool soft but threadbare at the elbows.
“Can you pass the salt?” Simen asks, his eyes still on the screen, his thumb scrolling through a message thread that ends in a series of emojis he doesn’t understand. The salt shaker is a small glass container, the crystal grains catching the light as he tips it over the pot. The sound of the grains hitting the surface is a faint tinkling.
She reaches for the shaker, her fingers brushing the cool glass, the salt spilling in a thin line. She watches it settle, a small white line that disappears into the broth. The broth is a deep amber, the color of boiled carrots, the surface speckled with tiny bubbles rising slowly.
The clock on the wall ticks, a wooden pendulum moving back and forth, the sound a soft, regular click. The clock is a vintage piece with a brass face, the numbers Roman, the hands slightly tarnished at the tips. The time reads 5:38 PM. The numbers are not a marker of urgency, they are simply numbers.
Thomas puts a wooden spoon into the pot, the spoon’s handle worn smooth where his fingers have rested for years. He leans back against the counter, the weight of his body shifting onto his feet, the posture relaxed but tense at the same time. He looks at the children, at Ingrid, at the pot, at the steam, his eyes flickering between the tasks.
Maja folds the worksheets, the paper rustling softly, the sound a thin whisper in the quiet kitchen. “I’m going to be in the bathroom for a minute,” she says, and she steps toward the bathroom door, the wooden door with a brass knob that squeaks slightly as she turns it. The squeak is a small sound that echoes in the empty hallway.
Ingrid watches the door close, the way the latch catches, the way the light from the kitchen spills into the hallway, a thin band of amber that falls on the rug. The rug is a low‑pile carpet, the pattern a muted geometric design in shades of gray and beige. The texture of the rug is soft under her bare feet, the fibers slightly raised.
She turns toward the window, the glass pane dirty in the lower corner, a streak of grime that catches the light. Outside, the maple leaves are turning brown, a few still clinging to the branches, the sky a uniform gray, the air damp. A single car passes by on the street, its headlights briefly illuminating the front of the house, the light reflecting off the wet asphalt.
Thomas lifts a ladle, the metal cold to the touch, the handle a smooth curve, and he pours a portion of soup into two shallow bowls. The soup is poured with a steady motion, the liquid flowing in a thin stream, the sound of the liquid hitting the ceramic a soft splash.
She takes a bowl, the ceramic white with a thin navy rim, the weight balanced in her hand. She places it on the table, the surface of the table a dark walnut veneer, the grain of the wood visible, the edges slightly chipped where a child’s elbow once hit it. The table has a small dent near the center, a reminder of a previous accident with a rolling chair.
“Do you want more tea?” Thomas asks, his voice low, the question hanging in the air. He reaches for the kettle, the metal whistling as steam builds inside, the sound a high pitch that rises then stops abruptly when the kettle clicks off.
She nods, the motion of her head small, the sound of the kettle whistling a brief moment before the click. She watches the kettle’s spout, the water streaming in a thin, clear line into the teapot. The teapot is a small porcelain piece, the lid fitted tightly, the handle a gentle curve.
The children sit at the table, Simen with his phone still in his hand, Maja with her worksheet folded beside her plate, the bowl of soup steaming in front of each of them. The steam rises in a thin column, the droplets condensing on the glass of the window, the pattern of droplets forming a random design.
Ingrid picks up the spoon, the metal smooth, the weight familiar, and she brings it to her mouth, the soup warm against her tongue, the taste of carrot and onion plain. She chews, the texture of the vegetables soft, the broth thin, the flavor balanced.
She thinks of the day’s appointments, the meeting with the department chair about the new curriculum, the email from a student asking for clarification on a poem, the sound of the printer in the office humming, the way the paper feeds through, the slight jam at the end of the stack. She thinks of the phone call from Astrid’s nurse, the brief report about a medication change, the schedule for the next physiotherapy session, the name of the therapist, the date and time scribbled on a piece of paper.
Thomas places a second bowl in front of Simen, the spoon already in the bowl, the steam rising, the sound of the spoon clinking against the ceramic. He looks at Ingrid, his eyes meeting hers for a fraction, the moment a quiet acknowledgement of something unspoken.
The house settles, a low creak from the floorboards as the temperature drops, a soft sigh of the old building adjusting to the night. The lights in the hallway dim, the LED bulbs flickering to a lower intensity, the glow becoming softer, the shadows lengthening along the baseboards. The sound of the clock’s pendulum continues, the click steady, the rhythm unchanging.
She finishes her soup, the bowl now empty, the spoon resting on the table, the metal catching the light. She sets the bowl down, the clatter a small, clear sound. She looks at the empty space where the soup once was, the bowl now a hollow shape, the interior dark. She feels the weight of the moment, the accumulation of the day, the presence of the ordinary.
Thomas clears the table, the plates stacked, the clatter of ceramic, the sound of the dishwasher being loaded, the door closing with a soft thump. He turns off the stove, the click of the knob, the light of the burner fading. The kitchen is now quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator, a steady, low vibration.
Ingrid stands, the weight of her coat on her shoulders, the texture of the wool against her skin, the slight ache in her back from the day’s walking. She glances at the hallway, at the coat still hanging, at the small rug, at the picture frame on the wall that holds a photograph of a younger version of herself, the edges frayed, the glass slightly smudged. She does not name the feeling, she simply observes the scene, the accumulation of objects, the light, the sounds, the people moving in small, unremarkable ways.
Ingrid steps through the front door; the latch clicks softly behind her as she enters a space that is already steeped in the quiet hum of evening routines. The air is cool and carries a hint of wood smoke from nearby chimneys, mingled with the faint trace of pine cleaner on polished banisters. A strip of frosted glass above the door bathes the hallway in a pale, diffused light—the kind that reveals the cream-colored walls and small imperfections like the slight warp along the edges of each worn wooden floorboard.
On the landing she pauses for an instant, her gaze drawn to the family photographs lined up against the wall. One frame shows Astrid, her mother, standing in a sun-dappled garden many years ago, wearing a flowery dress and holding a well-used watering can; now that same image seems almost fragile, its edges fraying at the corners of memory.
Descending the stairs, she hears Thomas’s voice floating from the kitchen. In there he stands—a figure hunched slightly over the stove, stirring a bubbling stew in an old enameled pot that has seen decades of use. Its red surface is flecked with tiny chips and patches where rust has begun to nibble away at its base. Thomas wears his usual faded blue shirt, two top buttons undone, and his glasses rest precariously on the bridge of his nose as he alternates between stirring and flipping a sizzling pan.
Ingrid moves closer, watching him without really intruding. The rhythm in his hands—the slight twist here, the firm push there—is familiar yet oddly distant; it reminds her of something she once knew but can’t quite pinpoint now. Her fingers graze the edge of the counter, noticing the tiny scratch left behind from a recent mishap when Simen had dropped a bowl earlier that week.
Simultaneously, Simen emerges from the living room into the kitchen. He pauses beside the counter with his posture slightly slouched—a typical teenage affectation—his hair tousled as if combed by absent hands. Maja follows close behind him, holding her well-worn sketchbook open in one hand and a pencil that’s seen better days in the other; her curly hair bounces with each step.
Thomas glances up from his cooking, meeting Ingrid’s eyes briefly before returning to his task. “How was it?” he asks in a casual tone that somehow carries an undertone of concern. His voice trails off as if waiting for more than she intends to give. “Fine,” she replies tersely, not elaborating on her visit.
Simen interjects with a half-hearted comment, his voice low and distracted: “I might have some extra work tonight…” before trailing off without finishing the sentence.
For a moment Ingrid’s mind drifts away from these fragmented exchanges. Thoughts of Astrid surface unbidden—the care facility on the outskirts of town with its pastel-colored walls that seem almost too cheerful against the gray autumn sky. Her mother now sits in a wheelchair, her movements awkward and uncertain; the familiar face sometimes looks right through Ingrid rather than meeting her gaze. These details are noted simply as facts, like imperfections on an old china plate.
The kitchen itself holds its own history. On the wall above the stove hangs a small clock with a worn face that ticks away seconds in steady increments—a relic from another era. The windows are draped with thin, patterned curtains of muted green, letting in just enough light to reveal dust motes dancing lazily in the air; each one sparkles briefly like tiny jewels against the backdrop of fading daylight.
Thomas turns back to his cooking, and Ingrid observes him more closely—the way he rotates his wrist with each stir, the slight crease between his eyebrows when he concentrates. Such details are familiar yet seem strangely distant now, reminiscent of echoes from a past life that she can no longer fully inhabit.
Meanwhile, Simen sits at the kitchen table, legs swinging slightly under the chair, fiddling absentmindedly with a scrap of paper—perhaps homework or just an idle doodle. Maja stands by the window, her eyes scanning the street outside as if searching for something—or maybe simply lost in thought. Their silence fills the room like a quiet hum, punctuated only by the occasional clink of spoon against pot.
There’s a sense of domestic routine enveloping Ingrid—a moment that she simultaneously cherishes and resents. The ordinary details—the steady rhythm of Thomas’s cooking, the slight disarray of the dining table set for dinner, the half-finished dishes left from lunch—act as markers of both stability and change. Her mind wanders back to days long past when Astrid used to help set the table; those memories now seem like artifacts preserved in a museum of time.
Together Ingrid and Thomas move to the dining room. Thomas places plates on the table with practiced ease while Ingrid arranges cutlery—a collection of forks, knives, and spoons each bearing its own small imperfections. The tablecloth is a neutral beige, its weave slightly uneven here and there; it was bought years ago from a store that no longer exists.
As they work, Maja reenters briefly with her sketchbook in hand before retreating into the quiet world of colors and lines, while Simen appears from nowhere, his expression neutral but expectant. He says softly, “Maybe I should finish my homework later…” and then lapses back into silence.
The aroma of the stew—hinting at rosemary and thyme—mingles with the smell of freshly baked bread that drifts in from a nearby bakery Ingrid once frequented as a child. Thoughts of dinner conversations from years past—a mix of literature and philosophy—float through her mind, though now they seem distant compared to current concerns.
Thomas calls out without looking up, “Are you coming to help me set the table?” His voice is direct but carries a hint of tentativeness. Ingrid nods in response, though she remains silent, wondering if joining him might serve as a welcome distraction from the nagging feeling that something essential has been missed along the way.
Back at the kitchen counter, Ingrid’s hand brushes against the edge of the table—the surface is smooth yet marked by years of use, like every other object in this home. Her thoughts drift again to Astrid; now confined to a care facility after her stroke, her once-fluid movements replaced by rigidity that seems as much a part of her current state as it does the aging process itself.
As dinner approaches, the ordinary sounds of the evening coalesce into a symphony—the clinking of cutlery, the soft hum of conversation, and the rhythmic sizzle from the stove. Thomas asks Maja about school; Simen mumbles something about an upcoming test; Ingrid responds with nods and brief affirmations, each sentence fragment overlapping without ever fully connecting.
The light outside dims further, leaving the room in a state of soft twilight as another day folds into memory. Ingrid closes her eyes for a moment, allowing the hum of ordinary life to wash over her while simultaneously noting that nothing dramatic is unfolding—yet every detail remains profoundly significant.
Ingrid opened the front door, the sound of the handle echoing in the silence. She felt the cold air seep into her bones as she stepped outside. The sky was a canvas of leaden grey, casting long shadows that stretched across the uneven pavement. The leaves on the trees were like forgotten ghosts, their golden hues muted by the gloomy weather.
Thomas was in the kitchen, his back to her. He moved with a rhythmic precision, knife deftly dicing vegetables. Ingrid's gaze drifted to the countertops, their surface a patchwork of granite and stainless steel. The pantry doors were closed, their handles gleaming like polished silver. She caught a glimpse of Maja's room through an open door; her desk was cluttered with schoolbooks and papers. Simen's room remained untouched, his bed made neatly, the comforter folded precisely at the corners.
Ingrid sighed. Her mother's care facility was just a short drive away, yet she felt as if she had traveled miles. Astrid lay in her bed, eyes closed, her breath shallow and irregular. Ingrid had spent the afternoon with her, holding her hand, listening to her stories of yesteryear. The familiar scent of institutional linens filled the air, a reminder of the inevitable passage of time.
She turned away from the memories, focusing on the present. The sound of sizzling oil filled the air as Thomas flipped burgers on the stove. Simen and Maja were at the table, engrossed in their homework. The soft glow of the lamp cast a warm orange hue over their faces, revealing the subtle contours of their features. Ingrid closed her eyes, allowing herself to be drawn into the rhythm of the evening.
But thoughts of Astrid's decline and her own stagnant life threatened to break through the surface. She found herself questioning the choices she had made, the paths not taken. The weight of these thoughts pressed down on her chest like a heavy blanket. She forced herself to breathe, focusing on the simple task of peeling potatoes for tonight's dinner.
"Mom?" Simen's voice broke through the silence. Ingrid looked up, seeing his worried expression. He had noticed her absence, her thoughts wandering. "Is everything okay?" he asked, his eyes reflecting the dim light from the kitchen window.
She nodded, her response automatic. "Yes," she said, forcing a smile. "I'm just thinking about dinner." Inside, she felt a pang of guilt. She had let her children down, letting her thoughts wander instead of being fully present for them.
Thomas called from the kitchen, his voice echoing through the house. Dinner was almost ready. Ingrid knew she couldn't dwell on her failures much longer. She needed to focus on the here and now, on the simple joys of family and food.
As she continued peeling potatoes, she noticed the texture of the skin beneath her fingertips. The roughness, the imperfections. It was a stark reminder of the fragility of life, of the constant cycle of growth and decay. She wondered if Astrid had thought about these things as she lay in her bed, her mind drifting through the corridors of memory.
A knock on the door broke the silence. It was the neighbor's daughter, Elizabeth, coming to borrow a cup of sugar. Ingrid smiled as she opened the door, welcoming the distraction. Elizabeth was tall and slender, with long blonde hair that shimmered like silver in the low light. She was kind and caring, always there when needed.
Ingrid let her into the house, grateful for the brief respite from her thoughts. As Elizabeth moved through the kitchen, she caught glimpses of the world around her: the wooden floorboards, their surface worn by time; the clock on the wall, its hands frozen at ten past six; the photographs scattered across the countertops, memories frozen in time.
The conversation was light and easy, a welcome distraction from her thoughts. Ingrid found herself lost in Elizabeth's laughter, forgetting about her mother and her failures. But as she closed the door behind her, the weight of her concerns returned with a vengeance. She felt a sudden urge to call Thomas, to confide in him about her fears and doubts.
But she hesitated. What was the point? He would listen, offer comforting words, but ultimately, it was up to her to face her demons. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, allowing herself to be drawn into the present moment. The sound of Simen's voice drifted through the silence, a reminder of the love and support that surrounded her.
Ingrid opened her eyes, focusing on the task at hand. She continued peeling potatoes, her thoughts returning to the rhythm of the evening. The light faded as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the room. The house took on a new atmosphere, the soft glow of the lamp providing a warm and cozy atmosphere.
As she watched Simen and Maja finish their homework, Ingrid allowed herself to be consumed by the simple joy of family. She felt a profound sense of gratitude for the love and support that surrounded her, for the everyday joys that often go unnoticed in the pursuit of bigger, more meaningful things.
And as she sat at the dinner table, surrounded by the warmth of loved ones, Ingrid knew that this was enough. This was all she needed. The weight of her fears and doubts began to lift, replaced by a sense of peace and contentment. She looked around the table, seeing the familiar faces of those she loved most, their expressions etched in the soft light of the lamp.
It was enough. For now.
Ingrid stepped into her home and paused, as if entering a still life already composed for quiet contemplation. The air hung heavy with steam rising from the kitchen—a mix of vegetable broth and garlic simmering on the stove, the scent clinging to Thomas's hair where he stood at the counter chopping carrots with methodical precision. Late afternoon light filtered through sheer curtains in gauzy shafts that illuminated motes dancing above Maja crouched by her Lego creation near Ingrid’s feet; each tiny piece precisely placed according to some blueprint only she could see. The room hummed with a comfortable quiet, save for the faint strains of classical music drifting from another room and Simen's rhythmic tapping against his phone screen—an incessant habit that had become like white noise in their household.
She stood there, taking it all in as if witnessing someone else’s life. A feeling she couldn't shake lately: this sense of standing outside herself looking at a scene set for an ordinary evening within her own home. The weight of the day's visit with Astrid still pressed against her chest like damp wool—a constant reminder that hung heavy and unshakeable even here, amidst these familiar surroundings bathed in warm sunset hues caught momentarily between clouds and window glass before dusk claimed full dominance over daylight hours soon ending too quickly each passing autumn evening.
"Smells good," Ingrid said finally, breaking the silence of her own thoughts as much as that within their home. She meant it for Thomas but found herself addressing no one in particular—perhaps even speaking to dispel a mood she couldn't quite name yet felt pressing against every moment since leaving Astrid's room hours ago at twilight time when artificial light just began its nightly battle with encroaching shadows outside windows everywhere throughout this quiet neighborhood where nothing much seemed happening beyond lives lived fully despite their ordinary rhythms beating steady under routines' calm surfaces.
Maja looked up from her Lego village, eyes narrowed slightly in concentration as she continued fitting a window frame into place even while glancing toward Ingrid's voice without pausing construction efforts now nearing completion according to some unseen timetable only eleven-year old minds could comprehend fully amidst their imaginative worlds built brick by painstakingly placed tiny plastic one.
"It does smell nice," Maja replied after an assessing sniff of the air, as though confirming its quality before giving her mother full credit for noticing first what everyone must surely now be aware was happening here in this kitchen where meals had been prepared countless times throughout seasons passing quietly beyond windows framing views unchanged yet holding infinite potential within their glassy depths.
Thomas stopped his chopping long enough to offer a smile, the steam from the pan briefly outlining his face like some culinary halo before dissipating into air already thick with moisture and unspoken thoughts swirling amidst ordinary evening rituals played out across countless stages set for lives lived fully even when drama remained stubbornly absent most days save those rare occasions when it crashed through doors left open just slightly too wide on careless winds born of neglectful habits ingrained over years spent together under one roof's sheltering embrace against autumn storms that would surely come again soon enough despite all efforts exerted toward keeping them at bay outside where they belonged beyond safe havens found within homes like this very one. Ingrid moved further into the room, her footsteps muffled by the wool rug she had woven herself years ago in a fit of creative energy during Maja's infancy—a project begun to pass long hours while nursing and completed only after months spent mastering skills forgotten since school days ended decades prior for Ingrid but which now lay underfoot offering silent testament against fleeting moments claimed forever amidst endless cycles repeating throughout time immemorial within families everywhere.
The key scraped the back of the enamel sink. A low, wet sound, thin as a fish’s gills. Ingrid watched it from the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the frame, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. The light in the kitchen was too bright, yellow and flat, from the single bulb hanging over the stove. It made the linoleum floor look like plastic, the tiles like cheap stickers on a Formica countertop. Outside, the late October twilight bled into the windows like bruised skin, purple and orange bleeding together, smudged against the cold glass.
Thomas was humming, something tuneless and nasal, something about the washing up. He stood at the sink, the water running in a thin, steady stream over the pile of dishes from supper. He didn’t look up, just scraped again, the blade moving in a shallow arc, leaving a faint white line. Dish soap bubbled at the edge. He was humming, a low, grumbling sound, and occasionally he’d pause, reach for a sponge, scrub vigorously for a second, then pause again, listening. The hum vibrated through the floor, a low thrumming in Ingrid’s own chest. It was the sound of domesticity, or maybe just water running. She didn’t know which.
Maja was in the living room, doing her homework, but you could hear her, a low, concentrated scratching sound, the pencil lead screeching against paper. Then a sigh, a very quiet one, almost inaudible. Then silence for a moment, broken only by the hum from the kitchen. Then a rustle, like the turning of a page.
Simen was in his room, probably playing some loud, disconnected game on his phone. The door was closed, but the bass thumped faintly from behind it, a low vibration through the wall. Not loud enough to be intrusive, just… there. A constant, low-level thrumming that was part of the house now.
Ingrid shifted her weight. Her mother’s room. It smelled faintly of boiled cabbage and something else, something older, like dust that had been disturbed and settled wrong. Astrid was sitting in her chair, looking smaller than Ingrid remembered her. The stroke had thinned her, hollowed her cheeks, left her face slack in a way that was unsettling. She hadn’t said much, just sat there, her hands resting in her lap, her gaze fixed on the television screen showing some documentary about penguins. Ingrid had sat opposite her, the silence stretching thin between them, punctuated only by the occasional click of the remote as Astrid changed channels. Ingrid had wanted to say something, ask how she was feeling, if the facility was okay, but the words wouldn’t come. She’d just sat there, tracing the pattern of the floral quilt on the armchair with her eyes, feeling the weight of the unspoken, the weight of her own inadequacy.
Now, the smell of cabbage and dust was overlaid with the smell of frying onions in the kitchen. Thomas had started cooking dinner, something simple, onions and garlic, then ground meat later. The air in the kitchen was thick with it, a warm, fatty smell that filled the space without offering much comfort. Ingrid could smell it on Thomas too, faintly, on the back of his neck where he’d unconsciously rubbed his hand.
She thought about Maja’s essay. It was due tomorrow. Ingrid remembered helping her with it, the girl sitting hunched over the dining room table, her brow furrowed, the pages covered in neat, precise handwriting. Maja was anxious, always anxious. Her perfectionism was a kind of armour, but Ingrid suspected it was also a shield against something deeper, something Ingrid didn’t know how to name. Ingrid had offered suggestions, vague ones, about structure and flow, but Maja had nodded, her eyes darting away, and rewritten everything anyway. Now she was doing it alone, in the quiet dark of her room. Ingrid wondered what the essay was about. Probably something safe, something about a character’s internal conflict. Safe. That was Maja. Always safe.
Simen. Where was Simen? Was he still in his room? Or had he crept out onto his phone? The phone. The constant, low thrum of the world outside the house, a vibration that seemed to echo the bass from his own room. Ingrid remembered him building things as a child, intricate models that collapsed under the slightest pressure, or sprawling landscapes made of cardboard boxes and spare parts. Now he just… existed, somewhere. She didn’t know what he thought about, or if he thought much at all. Sometimes he’d be in the kitchen, suddenly, leaning against the counter, phone balanced on his knee, a blank expression on his face, listening to whatever noise was playing. Other times, he’d be in his room, the door ajar or closed, but the phone always seemed to be there, humming. It was a constant presence, a machine that filled the void with static. She missed the boy who built things, the boy who used to ask her opinion, who’d sit on the floor with her, listening to her read aloud. Now he was somewhere else, a shadow version of himself.
The scraping in the sink stopped. Thomas turned off the tap, the sound of water sluicing away. He dried his hands on a dishtowel, the rough texture scraping against his palms. He looked up, probably expecting a comment, but Ingrid just watched him, the way the light caught the fine lines around his eyes, the slight stoop in his posture as he reached for the frying pan.
“This smells good,” she said, the words tasting flat in her mouth.
Thomas didn’t look surprised. He just nodded, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “Yeah. Beef. Simen said he likes it.” He patted the pan, the metal cool against his hand. “He’s in his room. Said he had homework.”
More homework. Always homework. Maja too. Their lives were filled with assignments, deadlines, the quiet pressure of expectations. Ingrid’s own assignments – teaching, motherhood, the slow, inexorable slide of her mother – felt equally demanding, equally weighty. She picked at a loose thread on her sweater sleeve. It was a blue one, a cheap acrylic blend, probably from a catalogue. She’d bought it last winter, thinking it would be warm, but it felt thin already, the fibres fraying at the edge.
She thought about Astrid again, the television screen, the vacant look in her eyes. Was Astrid watching nothing, or was she watching something else? Something from before the stroke, perhaps. Or maybe just the blank screen, waiting for something to happen. Ingrid felt a pang of something sharp and pointless, like hunger. She stood there in the doorway, the bright kitchen light making her eyes water slightly. She could see the heat rising from the pan, a thin wisp curling up from the hot oil. The smell of onions cooking was stronger now, sharp and sweet.
Thomas was stirring the meat, the ground beef turning pink and sticking slightly to the pan. He didn’t talk much while cooking. He liked to cook, Ingrid supposed. It was quiet, methodical. Like the scraping of the key, the humming, the focused line of Maja’s pencil. All different ways of filling the space without really connecting. Maybe that was it. They all just occupied the rooms, performing their small, necessary tasks, the silence humming between them, thick and unbreachable.
The phone in Simen’s room vibrated, a soft, rhythmic pulse.
The kitchen light is a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, its warm amber wash spilling over the wood‑tiled floor, over the white enamel mug that has a chipped rim, over the red–and–white logo of the local supermarket that is printed in a thin Helvetica font on Thomas’ T‑shirt. The bulb flickers, a small crack in the filament catching the late October wind that comes in through the cracked windows of the old building, dragging in a dry, pine scent from the forest on the hill. Thomas stands at the stove, a heavy silver pot on the burner, a pot of lentil soup he has been simmering all afternoon, the lid still slightly ajar to let steam escape. He chops carrots with a dull knife, each cut a quiet click, the knife sliding over the counter as his hand drifts, the motion almost automatic, like a memory. The knife is a generic brand, black plastic handle, the metal dull from repeated use. The counter is a smooth dark oak, the grain visible under the light, the underside of the pot a glossy black. Thomas’ sweatpants are a deep navy, the seams slightly frayed at the knees, a pair of worn white sneakers on the floor.
I walk in from the hallway. The hallway is a narrow strip of beige tile, a single step to the right, a handrail with a small wooden knob. My coat is still on the coat rack—a wool coat, charcoal gray, with a red lining that matches Thomas’ T‑shirt. I notice a stray leaf stuck to the collar of my coat, a thin brown line against the soft gray. I set the coat down on the coat rack, the metal hook creaking slightly, a sound that marks the passage of the day. The refrigerator behind me buzzes, a low hum that is constant and indifferent. The refrigerator door is slightly ajar, revealing a small row of bottles: a bottle of orange juice, a small bottle of white wine, a bottle of water, a bottle of a dark red wine that smells faintly of rain. A glass of water sits on the counter. I notice the water is a small, clear glass, no brand on it, only a faint scar on the rim.
Thomas glances over his shoulder. “Got the carrots?” he says, voice a little high.
I nod. “Yes.” My voice sounds flat, the room echoing. I think of the way my mother used to ask me to help with the garden, the way she smelled of soil and rain. The memory slips, then comes back: the smell of the forest in October, the sharpness of the pine needles. I notice the window is open a few inches, a curtain of thin beige fabric hanging at the edges. The wind is cold, but the light is still warm.
Simen enters first. He is tall for his age, lanky, a black T‑shirt with a small cartoon fish logo, a pair of blue jeans that are almost a shade too light, his sneakers again worn, the laces frayed. He holds a backpack that is a faded green, a small emblem of a compass on the front, and a school book on the floor next to him. He stops at the door, looks at the kitchen, and says, “Dad, what’s for dinner?” His voice is quick, a question that seems to end the conversation. He doesn’t wait for an answer. He drops his backpack on the floor, the thump reverberating in the quiet. He moves to the table, sits. He looks at the pot of soup, eyes flickering across the surface. He lifts his phone, checks something. The phone screen is black, the app showing a calendar. He pauses, a brief hesitation. He looks back at Thomas. “It’s just soup,” Thomas says, half-smiling. The smile is small, a line of lips that don’t quite meet. “Lentils. You can have it hot or cold.”
Maja follows a minute later. She is smaller, her hair tied back in a messy braid, the braid a thin strand of gray intermingled with dark brown. She wears a red hoodie with a white stripe, a faded logo of a cartoon cat, and a pair of yellow sneakers with a small patch on the side that says “Team.” She stops at the door, looking at the kitchen, her face bright. “Can I have the soup too?” she asks, voice bright, but a pause as she looks at the pot. She sees the pot’s lid, the steam rising in a white plume that curls and falls, a small swirl of heat. Her hands, white gloves, she holds the phone, opens the messaging app. Her face flickers between a smile and a frown, then she says, “It’s too cold for the snow.” Her voice trails off, and she laughs, a short burst of sound that echoes on the wood floor. She sits next to Simen, looking at Thomas.
I sit down on the edge of the couch. The couch is a grey fabric, the stitching a pattern of tight lines. The cushions are soft, a little sagging at the back, the color a muted navy that matches Thomas’ sweatpants. I notice a pile of books on the side table: a paperback with a red cover, a hardcover with a blue spine, a book of poetry by a Norwegian author, the pages slightly yellowed. The coffee table has a chipped plate, a mug with a faded cartoon bear, a small pile of keys. I set my bag on the floor, the bag a black canvas with a small patch that says “Huskeliste” in a bold font. The bag has a small metal lock on the zipper, a tiny silver key in the pocket.
Thomas turns the pot, stirring with a wooden spoon. The spoon is a generic brand, a light wood, the handle worn smooth. He turns to me and says, “We should be done soon.” He says it again, in a softer tone, a pause that lets the words hang. He looks at the pot, at the steam, at the light, at the dark wood of the counter. I watch the steam curling upward, a slow descent into the air. The steam is faint, almost invisible, a white cloud that gathers and then dissipates. I think of the way my mother used to sit at a kitchen table and talk about books, the way the steam would rise from a pot of soup she made, the sound of the spoon stirring. I don’t feel any of those feelings, only a small weight in my chest that I can’t name. I notice the sound of the refrigerator humming, a low constant tone, a background of life that is not interrupted.
The children sit at the table. The table is a small oak table, the wood grain visible, the legs carved in a simple straight design. The table has a single chair with a small cushion. The chairs are wooden, painted a faint yellow. The table has a small pile of dishes: a white ceramic plate with a chipped edge, a glass of water, a small dish with a white bowl, a spoon that has a plastic handle. The table is clean, the surface smoothed with a cloth that has a faint gray stain. The light from the bulb casts a warm glow over everything, a circle of light on the table. The children look at the pot, at the soup, at the steam, at each other.
I feel the weight of the day, the heaviness of my mother’s care facility, the silence that has filled the apartment when I was not there. I notice the smell of the soap in the sink, the way the water drips in a small pattern onto the floor, the small puddles that slowly evaporate. I see Thomas again, the way he lifts his wrist, the slight twitch of his finger when he wipes his hands on a towel, the way his eyes catch the light as he looks at the children. I think of the way he has been, the way he used to smile, the way he looks at the world. I do not feel anything; I simply see the details. The wind pushes a leaf against the window, the leaf sticks to the glass, the leaf is a thin black line. The light from the bulb is slightly flickering, a small pulse that creates a subtle ripple in the room. The children, the soup, the light, the kitchen, the refrigerator hum, all of these details exist in a space that is both present and absent. I do not notice the taste of the soup yet, I do not notice the warmth that might rise from the pot, I simply notice the spoon, the pot, the steam. I notice the time: it is almost evening, the late October sky outside is a soft gray, the sun has set, the stars are faintly visible.
Thomas says, “Can we talk about tomorrow?” He says it as if he wants to finish something, the words trailing off, a pause that lets the silence fill. I look at him, at the children, at the light. The conversation starts, then pauses. The room continues. The light continues. The refrigerator continues. The pot continues. The wind continues. The room exists, with all its details, in a precise, unaltered way. The conversation may or may not happen. The soup may or may not be eaten. The details remain. The scene ends, the day ends, and I am left with the concrete facts of the kitchen, the pot, the children, the light, the refrigerator, the wind, and my own silent thoughts that drift like the steam, and the only thing that matters is that the kitchen, the pot, the children, the light, the refrigerator, the wind, all exist.
The kitchen light was a pale, amber hue, casting long shadows across the tile floor. Thomas stood by the stove, his back to the window, stirring a pot of lentils with the kind of deliberate, mechanical motion that suggested he’d been here for hours. The scent of garlic and thyme clung to the air, sharp and familiar. Maja sat at the table, her fingers wrapped around a pencil, drawing something on a notebook that looked like a sketch of a tree but wasn’t. Simen leaned against the counter, his arms crossed, watching the steam rise from the pot. The room felt small, cramped, as if the walls had been pressed inward by the weight of the evening.
Ingrid stood in the doorway, her coat still damp from the walk through the fall rain, the chill of the outside seeping into her bones. She watched Thomas’s hands, the way his knuckles brushed the edge of the pot, the way his shoulders slumped slightly as if he’d been carrying something heavier than the pot. The clock on the wall ticked. She thought of Astrid, her mother, lying in the care facility, the way her voice had faded into a whisper during the last visit. The nurses had said she couldn’t remember Ingrid’s face anymore. Ingrid had tried to explain the autumn leaves, the way the light changed, but Astrid had only blinked, her eyes clouded.
Maja looked up, her pencil pausing. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice too quiet, as if she’d expected the answer to be no. Ingrid didn’t answer. She turned away, her gaze drifting to the window where the streetlights flickered through the trees, their golden glow spilling onto the floor. The leaves had fallen, crisp and brittle, crunching underfoot. She remembered the first time she’d walked with Astrid in the park, the way the leaves had been so loud, so full of life. Now they were silent, scattered, like the way her mother’s words had fallen.
Thomas said something to Simen, his voice low, trailing off. “You sure you want to go to the library tonight?” Simen didn’t respond. He just stared at the pot, his eyes distant, as if he were seeing something beyond the steam. Ingrid felt the weight of the question, the way it hung in the air like the smell of the lentils. She thought of the last time she’d been with the kids, the way Maja had been so eager to perfect her essay, the way Simen had shut himself off, his phone in his hand, his face a mask. She had missed something, she knew it. But what?
The oven timer beeped. Thomas turned away from the stove, his movements stiff. He grabbed a plate, the ceramic warm to the touch. Ingrid followed him, her feet making soft sounds on the tile. The kitchen was a cage of light and sound, the kind of place where time moved slowly, where the walls seemed to press in. She thought of the way Astrid had once sat in the living room, her hands folded, watching the snow fall, her eyes fixed on the window. Now the snow was gone, replaced by the quiet of autumn, the way the light filtered through the curtains, the way the air felt thin.
Maja stood, her pencil dropping onto the table. “I’m going to the library,” she said, her voice flat. Ingrid didn’t stop her. She watched her walk away, the way her shoulders slouched, the way her shoes clicked against the floor. Simen didn’t look at her. He just stood there, his arms crossed, his face a blank slate.
The kitchen grew quieter. Thomas poured a glass of milk, the liquid sloshing in the cup. He didn’t look at Ingrid. She wondered if he was thinking of Astrid too, if he was remembering the way she used to talk about the park, the way she used to laugh. She thought of the way her own hands felt, the way they had been when she first held her children, the way they had been now, trembling slightly, as if she were holding onto something that wasn’t there.
The clock ticked. The leaves outside rustled. The kitchen was a place of small, ordinary things—the smell of food, the sound of the oven, the way the light changed. Ingrid stood there, her eyes on the floor, the weight of the day pressing down, the way the world felt like it was holding its breath. She didn’t know what was missing, but she knew it was there, somewhere, in the way the light filtered through the window, in the way the kids stood still, in the way the air felt thin.
Ingrid stepped through the front door, her coat still damp from the drizzle outside. She hung it on the rack by the door and took a moment to adjust her eyes to the dimmer light indoors. The smell of sautéed onions and butter filled her nostrils as she entered the kitchen. Thomas was at the stove, stirring something in a pan.
"Late," he said without looking up. "How's Astrid?"
"Much the same," Ingrid replied, leaning against the doorway frame. She watched him chop parsley with quick, precise strokes. The knife flashed in the low light as it severed the green stems. Her eyes moved to the window above the sink where raindrops were beginning to gather on the glass.
She remembered the drive home, her thoughts a jumble of images and impressions from her visit with her mother. The wheelchair by the bed, Astrid's pale hands resting in hers, the smell of hospital disinfectant that seemed to cling to her skin even after she'd left the facility. She shivered at the memory.
"I'm cold," she said aloud, crossing her arms over her chest. Thomas glanced up, his face framed by the hanging pot rack overhead. "You should get out of those wet clothes."
Ingrid nodded, her gaze drifting back to the window. The rain was coming down harder now, blurring the edges of the trees beyond the yard. She could see their trunks as dark silhouettes against the gray sky but little else.
"I saw Simen earlier," Thomas said, turning off the burner under the pan. "He's in his room playing some video game."
"Does he ever come down and join us?" Ingrid asked, her voice tinged with a note of bitterness she didn't bother to mask. She could hear the faint sound of music coming from upstairs, the pulsing beat a stark contrast to the quiet evening downstairs.
"Maybe later," Thomas said, not meeting her gaze. "Right now, he's focused."
Ingrid sighed, pushing herself away from the door frame. Her feet felt heavy as she moved across the room, each step echoing in the silence. She stopped at the window, tracing her fingers along the cool glass.
"I feel like we're losing them both," she whispered, more to herself than to Thomas. "Astrid slipping away, Simen retreating into his own world... And Maja, always so serious, so determined."
Thomas didn't answer right away, just set down the knife and came over to stand beside her. He put a hand on her shoulder, but she didn't lean into it.
"It's hard," he said finally, "being a parent. Watching your children grow up... It feels like you're always losing them."
Ingrid looked at him then, their faces just inches apart. She could see the lines around his eyes, the tiny creases that radiated from their corners. They'd been married for nearly twenty years, and yet sometimes it felt as if they were strangers living under the same roof.
"I wish I knew how to hold onto them," she said, her voice breaking slightly. "How to keep them here with us."
Thomas squeezed her shoulder gently before letting go. He reached up and turned off the overhead light, casting the kitchen into shadow.
"Maybe we can't," he said softly, "but maybe that's not our job. Maybe our job is just to love them and let them go."
Ingrid stood there for a moment longer, feeling the weight of his words against her chest. She could hear Thomas moving around the kitchen, clattering dishes as he set the table. The smell of dinner wafted up from the counter, filling the room.
Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing away the last remnants of autumn color from the trees. Inside, life went on: the clinking of silverware against plates, the murmur of conversation that would soon fill the air. And in that moment, standing by the window with her husband, Ingrid felt a glimmer of hope.
Perhaps it was enough to simply be together, she thought, to share these quiet moments of connection amidst the chaos of life. Maybe that was all any of them needed: someone who saw them, really saw them, and loved them anyway.
Ingrid stood in the doorway, surveying the kitchen. Thomas's back was to her as he expertly chopped an onion, the curve of his shoulders a familiar comfort. The soft hum of the refrigerator provided a steady heartbeat in the background. Simen was slumped at the counter, eyes fixed on his phone, fingers drumming a slow rhythm against the edge of the granite countertop.
"Mmm, dinner smells good," Ingrid said, trying to sound enthusiastic despite the lingering fatigue from her visit to Møllergården earlier that day. Astrid had been asleep when she arrived, but her face had looked pinched and small in the afternoon light, a fragile thing cradled in the pillows.
Thomas turned, his eyes meeting hers for an instant before he returned to the chopping board. "Thanks," he said, the word low and even.
Maja was sitting at the kitchen table, her back straight as she stared intently at her math homework. A pencil scratched against the paper with a steady tick, the sound like a nervous heartbeat. Ingrid's eyes wandered to the window, where a faint mist hung in the air, a remnant of last night's rain. The sky beyond was a deep, clear blue, almost purple around the edges.
Simen raised his head, caught Ingrid's gaze, and looked away without speaking. His hair was messy, as if he'd been running his hands through it all day. She remembered when he used to sit next to her on the couch after dinner, their legs tangled together as they read books or watched TV. Now he preferred to be alone in his room, doors closed, music playing.
The kitchen was warm and filled with the scent of cooking, but Ingrid's thoughts lingered outside with Astrid, in the pale light of the care facility's corridors. She'd tried to hold her mother's hand as she drifted back into sleep, feeling the fragile bones beneath her own palm. The image kept resurfacing: Astrid's small face, the way her eyes fluttered closed like a butterfly settling on a flower.
Thomas finished chopping and began to sauté the onions in a pan, the sizzle and pop of oil filling the air. Maja looked up from her homework, her expression tense as she asked, "How was your visit?" Ingrid's hesitation was palpable before she replied, "It was fine," her voice even, but not quite honest.
Simen muttered something under his breath, got up from the counter, and began to clear the table. Ingrid watched him, thinking about how he used to help with chores without being asked, a quiet eagerness in his eyes when Thomas or she suggested he do something. Now he moved with a stiff, deliberate slowness, as if every step was calculated to avoid connection.
The kitchen lights seemed too bright after the dimness of Møllergården, and Ingrid's skin prickled with a mix of relief and discomfort. She thought about Astrid's words from their last conversation, when she'd spoken in fragments and incomplete sentences: "I'm...so tired, Ingrid. Don't know how much more..." before trailing off into silence.
Thomas slid the pan onto the stovetop, the aroma of cooking meat filling the air. The family sat down to eat in a silence that felt almost comfortable, like a familiar blanket on a chilly evening.
The light coming through the kitchen window is a low, diffuse thing, as if the day has already begun to succumb to the evening's quiet. It casts an uneven glow on the worn linoleum floor, where Simen and Maja stand side by side, their eyes fixed on the old television set.
Ingrid comes in from the hallway, her coat still slung over one shoulder, a faint scent of rain clinging to it like mist. She pauses for a moment at the threshold, taking in the scene before her – Thomas standing with his back to the stove, a spatula raised as if he's about to serve up something hot and satisfying. The sizzle of onions in oil drifts out into the hallway, mingling with the faint tang of cleaning products from Maja's efforts earlier.
"What are you making?" Ingrid asks without looking up, her voice a low rumble that vibrates through the quiet air.
Thomas turns, a smile spreading across his face as he sets down the spatula. "Just some pasta and vegetables. You're welcome to join us."
Ingrid nods absently, not really interested in food at the moment. She's been thinking about her mother – how she looked today, pale and pinched, her eyes sunken into dark circles of fatigue. The words she'd spoken in response to Ingrid's queries had been tired and hesitant, like the words of a person too exhausted to muster even basic enthusiasm.
She walks over to Maja, ruffling the girl's hair with a gentle touch. "Hey kiddo, how was your day?"
Maja shrugs, her eyes avoiding Ingrid's as she begins to tidy up the kitchen counter with a slow, methodical precision that speaks volumes about her anxiety levels. Simen stands at the edge of the room, his phone tucked into the pocket of his jeans, his gaze drifting out towards the garden where the last leaves are turning golden and falling in fluttering drifts.
"Good," Ingrid says finally, not really paying attention to Maja's response. She's too busy replaying her mother's words in her mind – phrases like 'I'm so sorry' that have become a familiar refrain since Astrid moved into the care facility last month. The thought of those words still sends a shiver down Ingrid's spine, a sensation that's as much physical as it is emotional.
Thomas clears his throat from behind her, and Ingrid turns to see him holding out a steaming plate of pasta in front of her. "Eat," he says with a quiet smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watches her reaction.
Ingrid takes the plate, her hands moving slowly as she lifts it to her lips. The noodles are hot and slightly undercooked, but that's what she likes about them – they're like a good novel, full of surprises and textures and flavors that all blend together into something satisfyingly messy.
As she eats, Ingrid finds herself drifting off in thought, the sounds of the kitchen muffled by the rhythm of her chewing. She remembers days when she'd spent hours poring over books with her mother – Austen novels and Bronte poetry, their conversations meandering through topics both familiar and obscure as they devoured the written word. It's hard to believe it's been years since those days ended.
Simen's gaze drifts in again, his eyes locking onto Ingrid's for a moment before looking away once more. Maja cleans up the last of the vegetables, her movements economical and efficient as she puts on some quiet music – Billie Holiday's 'God Bless the Child' plays softly through the speakers, its melancholy notes weaving their way in and out of Ingrid's thoughts like a mournful refrain.
Thomas sits down beside her, putting his arm around her shoulders as they continue to eat. "How was your mother?" he asks eventually, his voice soft with genuine concern.
Ingrid shrugs, feeling the warmth of his body seep into hers as she exhales slowly. It's funny – sometimes it feels like the most mundane conversations are the ones that reveal the most about us. The way Thomas wraps his arm around her shoulders without a word; the quiet patience he exhibits while Ingrid struggles to articulate even the simplest thoughts; Maja's slow, practiced movements as she cleans up after dinner.
They sit in silence for a moment, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and the gentle music drifting through the speakers. Outside, the sky has darkened – autumn's final day before the real winter sets in, its colors muted to shades of brown and gold that seem both desolate and beautiful at the same time.
As Ingrid looks out into the darkness, she feels a thought forming in her mind, like it's coalescing from the shadows themselves. It's not a clear picture yet – just a sense of something not quite right, of an unmet expectation that lingers on the edges of her awareness like a faint echo.
She turns back to Thomas, finding him watching her with those quiet eyes of his. "What?" she asks finally, feeling the word spill out before she can catch it.
Thomas smiles again – a gentle, understanding smile that speaks volumes about what he's thinking without saying anything at all.
As she steps into the kitchen, the scent of sautéed onions and bell peppers envelops her, transporting her back to countless Thursday evenings like this one, the familiarity a comfort, yet somehow also a reminder that time is passing, incrementally, inexorably, as Thomas stands at the stove, his back to her, the worn wooden spoon in his hand moving with practiced ease, stirring the contents of the pan, the sizzle and crackle of the food filling the air, while Simen sits at the table, his eyes fixed on the screen of his phone, his dark hair falling across his forehead in a messy swoop, his fingers typing out a message or email or whatever it is he's doing these days, his face a mask of concentration, and Maja, her blonde pigtails tied up with faded pink ribbons, sits beside him, her eyes darting between her brother's phone and the math textbook open in front of her, her pencil tapping out a staccato rhythm on the page, as Ingrid sets her bag down on the floor, the straps sliding off her shoulder, the weight of it, suddenly absent, leaving her feeling unmoored, untethered, like she's floating, drifting, as she takes in the scene before her, the ordinary, mundane beauty of it, the everydayness that is both a comfort and a prison.
The light from the kitchen window, a pale yellow, filtered through the leaves of the trees outside, casts an eerie glow over everything, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air, like tiny, invisible insects, as Thomas turns, catches her eye, smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, "Hey, how was your visit?" he asks, his voice low, gentle, concerned, and Ingrid feels a pang, a twinge of guilt, for not being more present, more attentive, as she thinks about her mother, Astrid, lying in that narrow bed, her face pale, drawn, the left side of her mouth sagging, like a failed attempt at a smile, the words they exchanged, stilted, strained, Ingrid's own voice, hesitant, unsure, as she tries to navigate this new reality, this new normal, where her mother is no longer the strong, capable woman she once was.
"Fine," Ingrid says, finally, her voice barely above a whisper, "she's...you know, struggling," and Thomas nods, his expression sympathetic, understanding, as he turns back to the stove, adjusts the heat, the flames licking at the bottom of the pan, casting flickering shadows on the walls, like tiny, malevolent spirits, as Ingrid takes a deep breath, feels the weight of her exhaustion, her frustration, her helplessness, settling in, like a physical presence, a palpable thing, as she thinks about all the things she needs to do, the papers she needs to grade, the lessons she needs to plan, the meetings she needs to attend, the never-ending list of tasks and responsibilities that seem to be suffocating her, crushing her.
Simen looks up, catches her eye, his expression a mixture of curiosity and wariness, "What's for dinner?" he asks, his voice a low rumble, like thunder on a summer day, and Thomas says, "Vegetable stir-fry," as he slides the pan off the heat, onto the trivet, the metal clinking against the ceramic, a sharp, bright sound, that cuts through the air, like a knife, as Maja closes her textbook, sets her pencil down, looks up at Ingrid, her eyes wide, expectant, "Can I help with anything?" she asks, her voice high, eager, and Ingrid smiles, feels a surge of love, of gratitude, for this child, this tiny, perfect human being, who is still so full of hope, so full of life.
The kitchen table, a worn, oak monstrosity, with its scratched, stained surface, its creaky, uneven legs, seems to stretch on forever, like a vast, barren landscape, as Ingrid takes a seat, feels the familiar curve of the chair against her back, the softness of the cushion, the slight give of the fabric, as Thomas sets a plate in front of her, the food a vibrant, colorful tangle, of bell peppers, carrots, broccoli, onions, all mixed together with the noodles, the sauce, the seasonings, like a tiny, edible universe, full of textures, flavors, sensations, as she picks up her fork, begins to eat, the taste exploding on her tongue, a riot of sweet, sour, salty, umami, like a symphony, a cacophony, of sounds, and smells, and sensations.
The conversation flows, like a lazy river, meandering, twisting, turning, as they talk about their days, their lives, their hopes, their fears, the words spilling out, like water from a fountain, as Ingrid listens, participates, feels herself becoming lost, becoming found, in the ebb and flow of it all, as Thomas mentions something about work, about a new project, a new initiative, and Simen asks a question, or makes a comment, or simply grunts, his responses, like a series of cryptic messages, from a distant, unknown land, while Maja chatters on, about school, about friends, about hobbies, her words, like a bright, shiny stream, bubbling, flowing, as Ingrid nods, smiles, feels herself becoming immersed, becoming absorbed, in the warm, golden light, of this ordinary, mundane moment.
The clock on the wall, an old, analog thing, with its round face, its ticking hands, seems to be moving, incrementally, inexorably, like a tiny, mechanical heartbeat, as Ingrid glances up, catches sight of the time, feels a pang, a twinge, of anxiety, of worry, about all the things she needs to do, the tasks she needs to complete, the deadlines she needs to meet, as Thomas gets up, begins to clear the table, the clatter of dishes, the rattle of silverware, like a series of tiny, metallic explosions, that cut through the air, like a knife, as Ingrid pushes her chair back, stands up, feels the familiar ache, in her lower back, the slight stiffness, in her knees, like a reminder, a warning, that she's not as young, as flexible, as carefree, as she used to be.
The evening stretches out, like a long, dark road, ahead of them, full of twists, turns, uncertainties, as Ingrid thinks about all the things she needs to do, the papers she needs to grade, the lessons she needs to plan, the meetings she needs to attend, the never-ending list of tasks and responsibilities that seem to be suffocating her, crushing her, like a physical presence, a palpable thing, as Thomas mentions something about watching TV, or playing a game, or simply relaxing, and Simen says, "I'm going to my room," his voice low, sulky, like a storm cloud, gathering on the horizon, while Maja asks if she can help with the dishes, her eyes wide, eager, like a tiny, shining star, as Ingrid smiles, feels a surge of love, of gratitude, for this child, this tiny, perfect human being, who is still so full of hope, so full of life.
The house is quiet when Ingrid gets home from visiting her mother at the care facility. She hangs up her coat in the hall closet and steps into the kitchen, where Thomas is standing at the stove, his back to her. He's wearing a worn gray t-shirt that clings to his shoulders, and his jeans are belted low on his hips. There's a smell of garlic and rosemary in the air.
Ingrid slips off her shoes and pads across the floor, noticing how the light from the window behind Thomas casts long shadows across the linoleum tiles. She leans against the counter and watches him as he stirs a pot of something on the stove—she can't quite make out what it is yet.
"How was your visit with Mom today?" Thomas asks without turning around.
"Same as always," Ingrid says, her voice sounding flat even to her own ears. She wonders if Thomas can hear the weariness in her tone or if he just assumes that's how she always sounds when she talks about visiting their mother.
Thomas turns around then, holding a wooden spoon in one hand. His eyes flicker over to her face before returning to the pot on the stove. "You look tired," he says. It isn't a question.
Ingrid nods, leaning back against the counter now. She rubs her forehead with one hand, trying to massage away the tightness between her eyes. "I am," she admits.
Thomas reaches out and puts his free hand on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze before letting go again. He returns to stirring the pot without saying anything else.
Ingrid looks around the kitchen while they wait for Thomas's dinner to finish cooking. The light from the window casts a patchwork of squares and rectangles across the linoleum tiles, each one illuminating different sections of the room in stark relief against the shadows. There are dishes piled up in the sink—Simen's, mostly, with a few of Maja's thrown in for good measure. A bowl of bananas sits on the counter next to an empty cereal box and a half-full glass of milk that Simen didn't bother to rinse out before leaving for school this morning.
Ingrid picks at a dried piece of tomato sauce on the countertop, flicking it into the sink with her fingernail. She wonders if she should do some more cleaning while they wait for dinner or just sit here and watch Thomas cook. She decides on the latter.
When Thomas finally announces that dinner is ready, Ingrid follows him and the children into the dining room without even thinking about it. The table is already set with plates and silverware, and there's a bottle of red wine chilling in a glass at each place setting. Maja sits down first, then Simen, followed by Thomas and finally Ingrid.
No one says anything as they serve themselves from the pot on the stove. The smell of garlic and rosemary fills the room as they lift their forks to their mouths. It's a simple dish—pasta with tomato sauce, some kind of meatballs in it that Thomas made himself earlier today. But Ingrid can feel her body relaxing already, the tension seeping out of her muscles as she chews and swallows.
They eat in silence for a few minutes, everyone focused on their own plates. Then Simen speaks up. "This is good," he says, glancing around the table to see if anyone will contradict him. When no one does, he adds, "Really good."
Maja nods in agreement, pushing her food around on her plate with her fork rather than eating it. Ingrid wonders if she's doing that because she doesn't like it or because she's trying to make it look like she ate more than she did. She decides not to ask.
Thomas clears his throat and pours himself some wine. He takes a sip before looking up at Ingrid. "So," he says, "how was your visit with Mom today?"
Ingrid feels her shoulders tense again. She forces herself to take a deep breath before answering. "Same as always," she says, knowing how hollow it sounds even as she speaks the words.
Ingrid entered her home just as twilight seeped through translucent curtains onto hardwood floors that mirrored back a dying light; she carried with her an overwhelming sense of urgency and disquietude, not quite grasping why it had nestled so firmly in the pit of her stomach. The scent of Astrid's lavender sachets lingered like whispers from another life as if to mock her present woes with past comforts—a perfume forgotten and discarded, a reminder that time was neither kind nor forgiving or generous in its march forward. Thomas stirred something on the stove; shadows danced along his focused silhouette against flames reflecting off white porcelain plates set meticulously into place by their mother's hand-painted china pattern, her last gift to them before she had slipped away from him.
"Dinner should be almost ready," he called without looking up or turning around—a mute acknowledgment of the day’s trivialities and tomorrow’s uncertainties that always seemed just beyond reach in this domestic tableau, which now unfolded before her like a familiar yet foreign play. Her children waited for an announcement with subdued excitement; Simen's eyes held curiosity too sharp to miss even the smallest details of life: how she wore his mother’s brooch today or when Maja had chosen pink plaid instead of yesterday's gray, signaling a mood shift inexplicable and uncharacteristic.
Inside her coat pocket was one photograph; it felt heavy with sentiment as though each image held the weighty breath of Astrid herself—taken years ago at their mother’s own table on similar evenings when laughter spilled out into a celebration, where they had all eaten and talked politics till late. She wondered if this routine was less comforting than chaotic now; there'd been too many Thursdays that echoes of Astrid seemed to linger in the corners like dust motes on sunlight—a ghostly residue refusing her efforts at closure or even acceptance, but an empty space where once warmth had lived.
The door closed with a soft sigh as she passed through it into their shared dining room and saw Simen perching beside the fireplace like he often did in hopes of capturing stories from his mother's tales; Maja sat opposite, folding laundry—an act that felt more burdened than duty-filled. She heard herself as an absent presence between them: always just steps behind or ahead but never truly there to bridge the distance widening with age and illness inside their quiet home where time itself seemed suspended in amber, preserved like her mother’s last years encapsulated within sepia tones of a memory.
Her eyes swept across surfaces cluttered yet cozy: books piled haphazardly on every flat surface; the faint scent of cedar and dust wafting from an old armchair that had been her grandmother's, its wood grain grooved with history. The room held everything she needed to remind herself it was a place meant for home—a safe space not only in structure but also feeling—the creak of the floorboards underfoot and familiarity found in Thomas’s callused hands as he worked; each plate, glass, spoon carried stories tasted with every bite taken. Her fingers trailed along their mother's pendant nestled against her chest where it felt like a stone tied to an anchor—a memento of days when life was lighter and laughter freer than the silence that had settled on this place since Astrid’s stroke, settling in with depressive weight.
She sank into their living room couch as if drawn by gravity itself; her body found solace not just from physical exhaustion but also a need to rest amidst unspoken fears and losses that seemed ever more tangible beneath the surface of everyday routines, each day an echo chamber for grief's relentless march.
“Momma’s flowers are beautiful,” Maja offered without preamble—her statement a casual interruption to Ingrid’s silence on this evening when words felt like stones too heavy in her throat; Simen joined, adding his own mundane observation about the weather outside that somehow seemed oddly relevant. Their voices were not enough for an exchange of more than cursory pleasantries as if each word was a raindrop filling their conversational clouds without quelling thunderous silence or heavy thoughts between them.
Ingrid's mind drifted to her mother’s room, the cool tiled floor beneath bare feet where touch became memory—a time of shared meals and bedtime stories that now seemed a world away; she could recall each creaky step upstairs from years ago but not today. The stark white walls greeted them with an emptiness so profound it ached, amplified by the silence between Thomas's chop-chop as he diced onions for tomorrow’s salad—a ritual she had watched over until her hands were numb themselves from holding.
The scent of beef stew wafting through their house made Ingrid pause, a temporary guest in the warmth; memories flooded with laughter-filled Sunday afternoons where mother and children played hide-and-seek among piles of dish towels or rolled newspapers stacked like artful barricades against imaginary intruders. It had been her responsibility, too, now the sole guardian at a threshold she hadn't realized was closing as surely as any door until it shattered under their mother’s fall from health and strength...
She watched Thomas lift his head once more in greeting, offering brief nod toward them both. It felt hollow; something had shifted since the last time he looked so directly into her eyes without words or questions about anything beyond dinner—a conversation they'd been circling around like plates yet to be set on a table that somehow also represented their family’thinning thread of normalcy and togetherness.
Simen fidgeted, glancing from the pans in his mother's kitchenware display down into her hands before sighing against another quiet evening where even tea time with Grandma was just a whisper between them—a memory more cherished for its warmth than presence itself; she recalled how it used to be. Their home had been full of life, echoes that now seemed like distant footsteps in the halls and rooms which felt too still at times when silence stretched into hours where not even a whisper was made manifest by her own breathing or turning pages between their books on Norwegian fiction stacked neatly along one shelf.
The doorbell chirped; an unexpected visit from friends meant she would have to share space with others, and somehow explain why the day had felt so heavy—an attempt at masks over grief that never fully concealed its face beneath her own frayed edges of worry for everyone in their shared world. The sight of them brought a stab of guilt; they were still laughing about something trivial: children’s cartoons, discussing plans to travel after vacation when winter'd come—a distant dream as cold and uncertain future-focused as snow against the sunset that painted their fall season with melancholy hues.
"You okay?" asked one friend; she smiled a smile not meeting eyes or reaching across, but simply through her voice which carried echoes of concern for an empty place at home where once there'd been laughter and voices mingled like wine in celebration—an image that felt both beautifully nostalgic yet painfully incomplete.
A pang struck Ingrid as she realized the absences, even this small social gathering’s warmth couldn’t fill what her mother's room lacked now; there was a void where Astrid had been not just physical but emotionally and spiritually anchored for decades. She felt each absence like an unshakable stone in the palm of her hand, shaped by years too long spent chasing other people’s dreams rather than embracing what she held true to be hers alone—a writer's life that had always seemed a solitary journey until now when it demanded companionship and acknowledgment.
The doorbell rang again with the same insistent rhythm, as if her own heartbeat was failing her; they were friends but also strangers in their shared sorrow for someone not present yet ever-felt: Astrid—a mother whose absence became a specter hovering closer each day since she’d come to recognize that perhaps the greatest void filled only where love had been lived and breathed.
She excused herself, her hand clasped around Simen's shoulders too tightly for comfort; his small form quivered slightly at its pressure—a child unmoored from an adult world with a mother to lean on that no longer answered calls or returned hugs as the one who had once been. Ingrid squeezed him tighter, her own hands growing clammy even though they'd run through cold water and Astrid’s cooling skin before entering their home again; she could still see Thomas in his apron-clad figure but not feel like he recognized this burden of solitude.
Maja came to greet her mother, too tightly enveloped within herself—her worry lines as pronounced on forehead and fretful brow as the delicate patterns etched into Astrid's handmade linens that had once brought comfort now seemed misplaced in a life she wasn’t sure how to weave together. “Is everything all right?” Simen asked, his voice small but insistent like autumn leaves piling upon each other outside her window, threatening the calm with an encroaching storm; it mattered little that he didn't hear himself or see Ingrid speak—her own heart echoed back only aches and unvoiced thoughts of what tomorrow would bring.
Ingredients for dinner lay in neat rows as Thomas methodically organized them, every vegetable with deliberate care; she saw her reflection on his face but not the man that had once navigated life’s complexities alongside hers before retreating into an increasingly silent world where solitude became a default state. A silence punctuated by simmering pots and sizzling sounds, reminiscent of better times when food was shared with more than just family—friends that now felt like visitors in her life’s theater rather than actors upon its stage.
The conversation drifted from trivial to inconsequential as it always did while guests arrived; laughter and small talk were commodities too scarce for a night already strained by absence, yet she tried not let anything slip into oblivion where her mother's room stood empty—a hollow echo beneath the surface of their lives. She watched them through narrowed eyes as they filled seats at the table and felt like an observer on foreign soil in this space that held memories too raw to share with strangers or even familiar faces now tinged by grief’s touch, which seemed both intimate and uninvited wherever it came from.
Ingrid sank into a chair across from them at the table; their voices rose as friends shared stories of trips gone awry while her mind wandered to Astrid's bedroom where time itself felt halted—a life paused in defiance against its natural course, leaving behind only memories that flickered and died like candle flames snuffed out at the touch. Her children were bright-eyed with youthful energy but seemed a world away as she tried to explain why Momma wasn't here tonight; they didn’t grasp what it meant when an adult loved one had become too old, not just for comfort or companionship—but needed help in daily life.
Simen looked up then and met Ingrid with eyes wide at the sight of her distress as she tried to keep from breaking into tears that threatened sob over fears about what their mother’s decline meant; he wanted answers but found only more questions swirling around like dust stirred by a gust, yet there wasn't enough clarity left in life or words between them for this.
They all shared stories and laughter after dinner as friends departed—it was never quite real to her that they were the ones providing solace when it felt no one truly understood unless she sat with Astrid herself on a chair less worn, where time seemed more kindred than cold in its passage through these rooms. They'd hoped for shared stories and jokes but left feeling as though nothing really connected them anymore beyond their need to fill this space they all called home—a place that now felt too big without the woman who had been a constant presence or pillar within it until her absence became an ever-expanding shadow over empty corners where once color lived.
As dessert plates were cleared and dishes washed, Thomas suggested coffee to stave off any lingering caffeine jitters; he hadn't realized how tired she looked or the chill that seemed not just in their house but seeping into her bones—a frigid reality where grief left cold pockets wherever it touched. Ingrid wanted nothing more than to sink herself between covers and sleep away any further from this world’s cruelties, yet even here at home they were alone together without Astrid's heartbeat or laughter that had once been the soundtrack of their days—a dissonance only magnified by a shared silence.
"You know," said one friend absently as she sipped her coffee and glanced out toward an October sky streaked with approaching rain, “Maja’s acting so strangely reserved lately.” Ingrid swallowed hard at the accusation—it was true but also unfair to point fingers; perhaps it had been too much for a child dealing not just with school pressure from overachieving parents and exams looming on her horizon like dark storm clouds, threatening heavy downpour of academic expectation.
Maja stood then in the kitchen doorway as if bracing against an invisible wind—their daughter's quiet anxiety wrapping around them tighter than winter’s chill had ever done; Ingrid saw herself there too often on this evening, caught between trying to hold her family together and feeling each of their struggles so intimately personal it felt like the world might break under strain.
She wondered if she'd grown stagnant in life—a quiet malaise rooting itself deep within soil that once fed growth; did this solitude define them or had they allowed themselves to be relegated here as a final, unwelcome refuge from responsibilities and expectations? Astrid’s absence now felt less like space taken by illness but more of an entire world where joy was no longer native—a place that seemed too big without her mother's heartbeat or the warmth she brought.
They sat in a circle, united not just to share empty seats at this table bereft and barren from absence; it felt as if something fundamental had shifted when Astrid was no longer there—a home that once thrived with love’s presence now simply bore the hollow husk of her physical form. Simen asked what he should be doing, how to help Momma without words or touch but only his company; Ingrid's heart ached as she realized it was not enough and felt a sinking sensation that perhaps there were no answers when one’s mother could barely speak beyond mechanical needs—a woman who had been her rock now shifting like sand beneath their feet.
"I think I need some time alone," Ingrid whispered to the friends she'd come home with, not wanting sympathy or empathy but a moment untethered from the gravity that seemed to suck every joyful note out of life since Astrid’s departure; her voice felt too loud in their quiet kitchen where memories hung like cobwebs—delicate and fragile.
Ingrid sank into bed as night settled upon them all, feeling a kinship with the house itself that cringed at this new normal even without Astrid’s touch; everything smelt of unfinished business, from dinner left half-prepared on countertop to thoughts lingering in her mind like steam dissipating into cold air. She closed her eyes not just physically but mentally as well—a woman who had once felt she could face anything now lying restless and uncertain about what tomorrow might bring if today couldn’t offer even solace from disquietude that refused to fade with dusk's embrace or time passing.
She tried not think of bedtime rituals but the quiet room where they lived without Astrid, a home bereft of laughter and warmth now only echoed by hollow footfalls—a space too vast for two people who no longer felt quite enough alone together yet were each other's primary support. Her breath came uneven as she considered what it meant when life took something so integral from you; the loss that had always seemed abstract in its reality was here, solidifying like frost across a windowpane on an unrelentingly dark night—one where grief’s shadow loomed larger with every passing day.
She tried to grasp at tomorrow but found herself lost amid twilight thoughts and dusky anxieties that refused sleep or respite, leaving her restless even in bed when it should have been a place of refuge; the world felt too large without Astrid’s steadying hand on her own.
She had always believed she'd be enough for her family but now found herself doubting if there was room left after all these losses, as much within their home or hers—a woman who once thought life could offer everything began to feel unmoored and lost at sea amidst waves too strong and relentless where grief itself threatened drowning the last remnants of her own sense that she held it all together; this Thursday evening had felt like another day, not ending but continuously cycling with no promise of a tomorrow—a life in which absence was as palpable as physical presence.
The world seemed to sigh against the windows where night closed over them and Ingrid surrendered herself into sleep; her breaths came short despite being alone yet surrounded by others, an aching sensation that whispered of a future less certain or kind than she had once dreamt it would be for all their hearts.
“What’s wrong?” Simen asked as he sat next to his mother in bed on what should have been another ordinary night; Ingrid could only see her reflection blurred by tired eyes and not the woman who'd always seemed strong despite doubts that gnawed at frayed edges of confidence—a strength no longer visible but buried deep within.
"I’m okay, sweetie," she managed to say with a voice too hoarse; it was an attempt to reassure her son whose worry etched lines on his forehead like braille for fear that only the other woman could understand or feel deeply enough about loss's suffocating grip. "Just tired."
She tried not think of how little Thomas had said since, but instead focused on Simen’s earnest eyes searching hers; Ingrid understood then what she couldn't articulate—the need to offer something more than words because her heartache was a tangible thing that left its mark upon skin and bone. The aching desire for connection wrapped around them like the cold air outside where snow might soon cloak their world in quiet, watching as he leaned into comfort of his mother’s lap while she wished to reach out beyond this family circle—to anyone who would understand what it was now coming between her and those whose sole company had once been enough.
"Dad's here too," Maja piped up from the doorway, bringing a smile that didn't quite touch Ingrid’s lips or warmth of heart; she wished for laughter more often than words to articulate pain where silence reigned supreme and conversation felt like trying to catch water with cupped hands.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror before stepping out into a night that smelled faintly bitter—the fall season’s air still heavy from rain even as it promised release; she took one last look of herself, noting how different this woman's face was to what had been and knew tomorrow might bring another unraveling thread in their already frayed tapestry.
She wrapped her coat around shoulders too weighed down by heartache for a mother lost beyond the reach of medicine or mere existence; it felt like an anchor dragging them all into depths where life seemed to hold less and less meaning with each passing day—a woman who once believed she could weather any storm now questioned how much strength was left in her own fraying sails.
Ingrid locked the door behind her as dusk melted away, feeling a kinship for all of them; they were adrift together without Astrid’s guiding hand or ground to stand on—a family too small against life's unpredictable tides and cruelty that sought not just survival but some semblance of the warmth their mother had always been.
She turned onto her porch steps, letting them click underfoot; she needed air beyond this house’s walls to clear a head cluttered with sorrow too heavy for solace or even restfulness as if each breath were laced with leaden weight and the world outside awaiting their return promised more of life's unforgiving nature. She hoped tomorrow held something better, not just another day but an answer to why she felt so unanchored in a sea that had begun taking shape around her long before Astrid’s body failed—a woman who once believed love was enough for all now saw it as fragile and fleeting like the last leaves of fall clinging stubbornly on despite winter's approach.
She walked home beneath stars not bright but cool, reflective in their distance; she needed to find something inside her that still carried a flicker of hope amidst grief’s consuming darkness—a spark waiting just beyond reach for those who dared look deeper than the surface where loss and longing had settled like dust.
Ingrid slipped into bed not seeking rest but understanding, finding no comfort in pillows or sheets that seemed to stretch thin around her aches as if they might finally tear away under strain of unmet need—a woman who once believed she could hold the world together now realized life's beauty was found less often where there were loved ones and more within herself; a discovery too delicate for mourning’s shadow to obscure, nestled in quiet corners only discovered when one looked beyond what grief had left behind.
She allowed thoughts of her mother—still present even as she'd no longer be able physically or emotionally bear the full weight herself—to guide how she might navigate a new tomorrow where mourning’s shadow lingered too long to ignore, but also gave room for unseen glimmers that refused to fade. A woman who had always felt enough found something profoundly precious within her own depth; it was an understanding of what made life meaningful not just in moments shared with loved ones gone before time’s cruelty could tear them away, but also the quiet courage born from confronting loss and finding a sliver more light amidst darkness.
And tomorrow might offer hope because she'd been brave enough to ask herself if it were possible for love itself not just as feeling or memory but lived experience that extended beyond grief’s shadow—a woman whose heart had once seemed unbreakable found within her a strength surprisingly tougher, one tempered by pain and honed in the furnace of adversity.
She closed her eyes to sleep with this knowledge etched upon herself; not just surviving but living anew might require embracing tomorrow's uncertainty—a journey into night where she could find solace from grief’s relentless grip and perhaps rediscover a joy untainted by loss as if the future held more than fear for her children or herself, like starlight piercing through heavy clouds to touch something essential within.
And in this sleep, Ingrid found an answer nestled not just between heartbeats but also somewhere deeper—a realization that while Astrid’s absence left a void too profound yet somehow manageable; it was because of her own capacity for courage and acceptance beyond despair's clutches.
In the midst of loss, she found something to keep alive within herself as if each step forward might also lead them back into their family circle not just in name but substance—a woman who knew love could be a journey that demanded its own formidable strength and perhaps had discovered it deep beneath layers unturned.
It was an understanding of what made life truly worth living, where grief's shadow might darken the present yet still hold space for tomorrow’s dawn—a realization Ingrid took with her into sleep as if each breath she drew carried a new beginning born from accepting not just their loss but also who they could become beyond it.
Ingrid's mind spun on a whirlwind of conflicting emotions as she walked through her dimly lit apartment complex, her heart pounding with tension. She had been waiting at Thomas's office for half an hour, her hands nervously tapping on the desk in case he called her. The clock ticked away, and it was still early. She decided to stay longer, just to see if something could change.
As she reached the entrance of her apartment building, she noticed that the sun was casting a warm glow over the deserted streets below. It was an unexpected sight, despite the fact that this had been her usual routine for weeks. The wind picked up, carrying with it the faint scent of coffee and baked cookies. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.
With a sigh, she turned left onto the winding street that lead to her mother's care facility. The building was small but beautiful, its windows opening onto lush gardens filled with wildflowers and trees. Ingrid's heart raced as she walked down the steps, each one feeling heavier than the last. She tried to imagine how everything had gone in this facility, from the daily routine of cleaning and bathing to the meals provided by the staff.
Her phone buzzed, interrupting her thoughts. She answered it to find that her mother had called her earlier in the day. Astrid had moved into a care facility after a stroke, but she was still living independently. Ingrid felt a pang of sadness for her mother's condition, but also a sense of gratitude for what she had left behind.
Ingrid continued on her way, her mind racing with thoughts of her daughter Simen and her son Maja. She tried to recall when they last saw each other, but everything seemed blurry. She wondered if their relationship had deteriorated over the years, or if something had changed in their lives that she wasn't aware of.
As she walked through the facility, she noticed that the staff was friendly and helpful, even though it felt like they were looking out for her rather than her family. She tried to hold onto a sense of hope for the future, but she knew that things might not always be easy.
Finally, Ingrid reached the entrance of her mother's room. She knocked on the door, expecting to see Astrid there waiting for her. But instead, she found it empty. The door was unlocked, and no one was home. She sighed in relief, knowing that Astrid must have moved out before she left town.
Ingrid took a deep breath, her mind clear as she returned to her apartment complex. She knew that she had to take action, even if it was just by visiting her mother's care facility again. She promised herself that she would stay vigilant and make sure that her mother's condition remained stable.
Ingrid stood at the kitchen doorway, her hands clasped around a thermos of tea she'd brought back from the care facility. Thomas was moving between the stove and the refrigerator, his movements precise but somehow distracted, as if he were trying not to think about anything too deeply. The children sat at opposite ends of the table, Simen's posture slumped over his homework, Maja's pen hovering uncertainly above her notebook.
The light filtering in through the windows was a muted orange, casting long shadows across the linoleum floor. Ingrid noticed that the kitchen clock had stopped ticking just after three o'clock this afternoon, an odd coincidence given the time. She wondered if she should fix it, or if it would be better left as is, a silent witness to the day's proceedings.
"Mom," Thomas said, his voice slightly strained, "can you pass me the salt?"
Maja glanced up from her notebook, eyes wide with concentration. "Coming, Dad." She pushed back her chair and crossed to where the salt shaker rested beside the kettle. Ingrid watched as Maja’s fingers fumbled a bit before she managed to pour a generous amount onto Thomas' plate. He said nothing but nodded gratefully.
Simen grunted in response to something his math textbook had just revealed, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms above his head. His room was still a mess from yesterday's soccer practice, jerseys draped over the bedpost, shoes scattered around. Ingrid felt a pang of irritation but pushed it away, knowing that cleaning up would come later.
The smell of Thomas' stew wafted through the air, rich and comforting, but also heavy with onions and garlic. It made her think of Astrid’s kitchen at home, how she always seemed to have something cooking on every burner. The thought brought a bittersweet smile to Ingrid’s face. She remembered the days when they would all sit around the table together, sharing stories and laughter.
"Did you talk to Aunt Birgit?" Thomas asked abruptly, cutting into her reverie. Maja turned away from him, her expression clouding over. "No," she mumbled, her eyes fixed on her notebook again. Simen looked up, interest piqued. "Who's that?"
Ingrid’s heart sank. She’d hoped to avoid this conversation tonight. "It's just a friend of Mom's," she said, trying to sound casual.
Thomas nodded but his eyes didn't leave Maja. "You know, we should all meet her sometime. It might help with the… issues."
Maja’s pen scratched furiously against the paper, her hand moving faster and faster until Ingrid thought the pencil would break. "I don’t want to," she said through gritted teeth.
Ingrid could feel Simen's eyes on her, waiting for an explanation. She forced a smile and shook her head. "It’s okay, Maja. We’ll figure it out."
The kitchen clock ticked silently in the background, each second echoing in Ingrid’s mind like a drumbeat. She glanced at Thomas, who was stirring his stew thoughtfully. His hair was still damp from his shower, strands sticking to his forehead. The steam rose lazily into the air, mingling with the scent of cooking food.
Ingrid couldn’t help but think about how different things were now. Astrid’s decline had brought them all closer in some ways, but also created new divisions and tensions. Simen seemed more distant lately, lost in his own world of sports and friends. Maja was always trying to please everyone, her anxiety palpable at times.
She looked down at her watch, noticing that the battery needed changing. The screen was dim, barely registering the numbers. She wondered how many other small things had slipped through the cracks recently, unnoticed and unaddressed.
"Hey, Ingrid," Thomas said softly, breaking into her thoughts, "you okay?"
Ingrid nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah, just… thinking."
Thomas gave her a gentle squeeze on the shoulder before returning to his dinner preparation. She watched him, noting the way he moved with practiced ease in the kitchen, each gesture deliberate and efficient.
Maja’s pen finally stopped moving. She looked up at Ingrid, her eyes red-rimmed and brimming with unshed tears. "Can we talk later?" she asked quietly.
Ingrid nodded, her heart aching for her daughter. "Of course."
The stew was almost done when Simen stood up, stretching his arms above his head. He paused, looking around the kitchen as if searching for something. Ingrid saw him glance at Maja, then back down at his plate, before finally turning and leaving the room.
Maja let out a long sigh, her shoulders slumping forward in defeat. "I hate it when he does that," she muttered to herself.
Ingrid walked over to sit beside her daughter, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. Maja leaned into the touch, her body trembling slightly. Ingrid closed her eyes, taking a deep breath of the familiar kitchen air. This was their life now, filled with quiet moments and small triumphs amidst the larger struggles.
Thomas called out from the stove, "Dinner’s ready!" His voice sounded distant, almost muffled by the weight of the day. Maja wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and nodded, standing up to join him in the dining room.
Ingrid lingered for a moment longer, watching as Thomas ladled stew into bowls and placed them on the table. The kitchen clock ticked silently, each second marking the passage of time. She stood there, lost in thought, until she finally followed her family to the dinner table.
In the dim light of the kitchen, Thomas was flipping the chicken breasts on the stove, the scent of garlic and herbs filling the air. He glanced over at Ingrid as she stood in the doorway, her shoulders tense with weariness. Her hair was a tousled mess, and her eyes held a faraway look.
"Mother's doing well?" he asked, trying to keep his tone light.
Ingrid nodded, though there was no warmth in it. "She's... holding on." Her voice was a thin thread, barely above a whisper.
Thomas sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I know it's tough."
They stood there for a moment in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. In the background, Maja came in from her room, her eyes bright and eager. She gave both parents a hug, then darted off to find Simen.
"Did you talk to Astrid?" Thomas asked, turning back to Ingrid.
"No," she replied, still not meeting his eyes. "I couldn't bear it."
Maja returned with Simen soon after, their laughter carrying through the house. Simen was dressed in his best clothes for what seemed like the millionth time that week. He gave both parents a cheery wave and headed straight to the kitchen, intent on helping Thomas make dinner.
Ingrid watched him go, her mind racing with images of summers gone by when Simen had been so eager to please her. Now, it was Maja who carried his weight, her own perfectionism making everything feel like an impossible task.
"Maybe we should talk about this," she said finally, breaking the silence between them.
Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Talk about what?"
"The children. They're... growing up faster than I can handle."
Ingrid nodded, her shoulders slumping a little more. "I know. But it feels like everything falls apart all at once."
There was a long pause before Thomas spoke again. "It's hard, but we'll get through this. We always do."
She forced a smile, though it felt hollow. "You think so?"
"Of course," he said firmly. "We're a family. And families stick together."
Ingrid felt a glimmer of hope in his words, even as she knew the reality was far more complex. She took a deep breath, trying to push aside her doubts and embrace the present moment with Thomas by her side.
As dinner sizzled on the stove, the three of them sat down at the table, their conversation light and filled with small talk. They laughed easily, as they often did when everything seemed normal. But Ingrid knew that beneath the surface, things were anything but.
She wondered what had driven her to this point—this sense that she had missed something essential about her own life. Maybe it was her work, her passion for literature, or simply the way she chose to live her days. She didn't know, and perhaps never would. But one thing was clear: she needed to find a way to reconcile with who she was and what she wanted.
For now, she would enjoy this moment—this ordinary Thursday evening in late October, with her family by her side. And as she took another bite of chicken, she felt a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, she could make peace with the person she had become.
The kettle sings in the kitchen, its whistle thin and high, a sound that has never quite settled into the house’s rhythm. Ingrid stands in the doorway, her coat still damp from the walk home, the hem of her sweater brushing the threshold. Outside, the light is a pale, bruised gray, the kind that lingers past dusk and refuses to fade entirely, as though the sky is holding its breath. She watches the last of it spill into the street, pooling in the gutters like liquid ash. Thomas is at the stove, stirring something that smells of thyme and burnt onions, his back to her, the way he always is when he’s pretending to cook. The children are in the living room, their voices overlapping in that half-argument-half-conversation tone that means one of them is about to say something important and the other is already preparing to contradict it.
Maja’s fingers tap the arm of the couch, a nervous rhythm that has persisted since she started middle school. She’s wearing the same sweater she wore to school today, the sleeves rolled up to reveal wrists that look too thin, the knit slightly frayed at the cuffs. Simen is on his phone, the screen glowing blue in the dimness, his posture slumped as if he’s already half-wherever he’s going. Ingrid notices the way his knees jostle the edge of the couch, the way his foot taps against the floor, a small, restless motion that suggests he’s waiting for something—maybe a text, maybe a moment to himself, maybe the end of this evening.
Thomas speaks, his voice low, his words trailing off as he adjusts the burner. “You’ll have to take the soup,” he says, turning to face her, his face shadowed by the steam from the pot. “It’s too hot to leave out.” Ingrid nods, her eyes on the soup’s surface, the way the fat rises in thin, golden threads, like the strands of a spider’s web. She thinks of her mother’s hands, the way they trembled when she tried to hold a spoon, the way the soup had once been a comfort, now a thing to be managed, measured, transferred.
The children’s voices rise, a tangle of syllables and accusations. “You’re always doing that,” Maja says, pointing at Simen, her finger tapping the air. “You’re always disappearing.” Simen doesn’t look up, but his jaw tightens, the way it does when he’s about to say something he’ll regret. Ingrid hears the echo of her own voice from years ago, the way she used to interrupt arguments, the way she’d say, “You’re both being ridiculous,” and then leave the room before either of them could respond.
She moves toward the kitchen, the floorboards creaking under her weight. The soup is too hot, the way Thomas said, but it smells like home, like the kind of comfort that comes from repetition and habit. She pours it into a bowl, the ceramic warm against her palms, the handle slick with condensation. The room is quiet now, the children absorbed in their own orbits, Thomas bent over the stove, his shadow stretching across the floor. Ingrid watches the light fade, the way it pools in the corners, the way it makes the walls seem to lean inward.
She thinks of her mother’s room, the way the curtains were always drawn, the way the light never seemed to reach the bed. The window was sealed shut, a barrier against the cold, against the world. Her mother had said once that she didn’t want to see the trees fall, that she preferred the silence of the room to the noise of the outside. Ingrid had laughed then, a sharp, brittle sound, because she couldn’t imagine her mother ever wanting silence. Now, she wonders if she was wrong.
The soup is too hot, the way Thomas said, but it’s not the heat that lingers. It’s the way the soup tastes, the way it’s familiar and yet somehow different, as if the act of transferring it from pot to bowl has changed it. She thinks of the way her mother’s hands had once moved through the air, graceful and sure, now stiff and uncertain. She thinks of the way her mother’s voice had once been a steady presence, now a thing that comes and goes, like the light outside the window.
Thomas speaks again, his voice softer now, the kind of tone he uses when he’s trying to explain something he’s not sure how to say. “I’ll take the trash out later,” he says, his eyes on the soup. “It’s not too late.” Ingrid doesn’t respond, her attention fixed on the way the steam rises from the bowl, the way it curls upward, dissolving into the air. She thinks of the way her mother’s breath had once been steady, now a thing that comes in short, uneven bursts.
The children’s voices rise again, a new argument, a new conflict, the way they always seem to find each other in the quietest moments. Ingrid watches them, her fingers brushing the edge of the bowl, the ceramic cool against her skin. She thinks of the way her life has fractured into pieces she can’t quite fit together, the way the days blur into each other, the way she’s always half-wherever she’s going. She thinks of the way she’s missed something essential, but she can’t say what it is.
The soup is too hot, the way Thomas said, but it’s not the heat that lingers. It’s the way the soup tastes, the way it’s familiar and yet somehow different, as if the act of transferring it from pot to bowl has changed it. She thinks of the way her mother’s hands had once moved through the air, graceful and sure, now stiff and uncertain. She thinks of the way her mother’s voice had once been a steady presence, now a thing that comes and goes, like the light outside the window.
The children’s voices rise again, a new argument, a new conflict, the way they always seem to find each other in the quietest moments. Ingrid watches them, her fingers brushing the edge of the bowl, the ceramic cool against her skin. She thinks of the way her life has fractured into pieces she can’t quite fit together, the way the days blur into each other, the way she’s always half-wherever she’s going. She thinks of the way she’s missed something essential, but she can’t say what it is.
The soup is too hot, the way Thomas said, but it’s not the heat that lingers. It’s the way the soup tastes, the way it’s familiar and yet somehow different, as if the act of transferring it from pot to bowl has changed it. She thinks of the way her mother’s hands had once moved through the air, graceful and sure, now stiff and uncertain. She thinks of the way her mother’s voice had once been a steady presence, now a thing that comes and goes, like the light outside the window.
The children’s voices rise again, a new argument, a new conflict, the way they always seem to find each other in the quietest moments. Ingrid watches them, her fingers brushing the edge of the bowl, the ceramic cool against her skin. She thinks of the way her life has fractured into pieces she can’t quite fit together, the way the days blur into each other, the way she’s always half-wherever she’s going. She thinks of the way she’s missed something essential, but she can’t say what it is.
The kitchen light casts a yellow rectangle on the linoleum floor. Thomas stirs something in a pot that makes a low bubbling sound. The smell of onions and curry powder rises. Ingrid watches him from the doorway, her coat still on, her hands in her pockets. The door to the living room is open. Maja's voice carries from there—she's on the phone, her voice tight with concentration, the way it is when she's trying to remember something. Simen's in his room, the door closed. She can hear the sound of his computer mouse clicking. The television is on but no one is watching it. She's not sure what's on. She's not sure she cares.
The floorboards creak under her feet. She's been standing here for a few minutes now. She's not sure how long. The light from the kitchen window is slanting across the counter. The refrigerator is making a low humming sound. She can hear the refrigerator. It's the same sound it made when her mother was alive, when she was still in the house, when she was still the one who made the refrigerator hum. The refrigerator hums in a way that sounds like a heartbeat.
She walks into the kitchen. Thomas doesn't look up. He's stirring the curry. The pot is stainless steel. It's the kind of pot that has been used for years. The handle is worn smooth. She's not sure how many times she's seen this pot. She's not sure how many times she's seen Thomas stir something in it. She's not sure how many times she's seen him make curry. She's not sure how many times she's seen him make anything. She's not sure how many times she's seen him make anything at all. The curry is beginning to thicken. The smell is strong. She's not sure if she likes it. She's not sure if she doesn't like it. She's not sure if she's noticed anything about it.
She's not sure what she's thinking about. She's not sure if she's thinking about anything at all. She's not sure if she's thinking about her mother. She's not sure if she's thinking about her children. She's not sure if she's thinking about herself. She's not sure if she's thinking about anything at all. She's not sure if she's thinking about anything.
She's not sure how long she's been standing there. She's not sure how long she's been thinking about anything. She's not sure how long she's been thinking about her mother. She's not sure how long she's been thinking about her children. She's not sure how long she's been thinking about herself. She's not sure how long she's been thinking about anything at all. She's not sure how long she's been standing there.
Thomas turns off the stove. He's wearing his blue shirt. The shirt is clean but it's been worn. It's the kind of shirt that has been worn for years. The sleeves are slightly too long. The collar is slightly too tight. She's not sure how many times she's seen him wear this shirt. She's not sure how many times she's seen him wear anything. She's not sure how many times she's seen him do anything. She's not sure how many times she's seen him do anything at all.
The curry is done. Thomas takes the pot off the stove. He's not looking at her. He's not looking at anything. He's just standing there. The pot is heavy. He's holding it with both hands. The pot is stainless steel. It's the kind of pot that has been used for years. The handle is worn smooth. She's not sure how many times she's seen this pot. She's not sure how many times she's seen Thomas stir something in it. She's not sure how many times she's seen him make curry. She's not sure how many times she's seen him make anything. She's not sure how many times she's seen him make anything at all.
She's not sure what she's thinking about. She's not sure if she's thinking about anything at all. She's not sure if she's thinking about her mother. She's not sure if she's thinking about her children. She's not sure if she's thinking about herself. She's not sure if she's thinking about anything at all. She's not sure if she's thinking about anything.
She's not sure how long she's been standing there. She's not sure how long she's been thinking about anything. She's not sure how long she's been thinking about her mother. She's not sure how long she's been thinking about her children. She's not sure how long she's been thinking about herself. She's not sure how long she's been thinking about anything at all. She's not sure how long she's been standing there.
The door to the living room is open. Maja's voice carries from there. She's still on the phone. Her voice is tight with concentration. The way it is when she's trying to remember something. Simen's in his room. She can hear the sound of his computer mouse clicking. The television is on but no one is watching it. She's not sure what's on. She's not sure she cares.
She's not sure how long she's been standing there. She's not sure how long she's been thinking about anything. She's not sure how long she's been thinking about her mother. She's not sure how long she's been thinking about her children. She's not sure how long she's been thinking about herself. She's not sure how long she's been thinking about anything at all. She's not sure how long she's been standing there. She's not sure how long she's been standing there. She's not sure how long she's been standing there.
Ingredients:
- 4 medium carrots, scrubbed and sliced into rounds (about 1 lb)
- 2 large potatoes, scrubbed and halved (about 2 cups)
- 3 cups chicken broth
- Salt and black pepper to taste
- Butter for mashing (optional)
Equipment:
- Large stockpot or Dutch oven with a lid
- Wooden spoon for scrubbing carrots and potatoes
- Measuring cups and spoons
- Baking dish or bowl for soaking casserole dishes
- Large mixing bowl (optional)
- Knife to cut up potatoes and carrots
- 2 large eggwhites, beaten until soft peaks form
- 4 large egg yolks, lightly whisked
- Salt and black pepper for seasoning (optional)
Instructions:
- Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a baking dish with aluminum foil or parchment paper.
- In a large stockpot, combine the carrots and potatoes. Add chicken broth and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce the heat to medium-high and simmer for about 15 minutes or until the carrots are just tender, stirring occasionally.
- Drain the vegetables into a large mixing bowl. Using a wooden spoon, carefully scoop the cooked vegetables into the beaten eggwhites. Mix well.
- Gradually add in the butter pieces, whisking constantly to combine. If using an egg white as a finishing touch, mix the remaining whites into the batter until fully combined. Season with salt and pepper.
- Pour the batter into a large oven-safe baking dish or Dutch oven and spread it evenly across the bottom.
- Arrange half of the mashed potatoes on top of the batter, dividing evenly between two pots. If using casserole dishes, spoon out the remaining batter into them and then cover them with more potato to fill the spaces.
- Pour the rest of the chicken broth over the casserole mixture, making sure it's evenly distributed.
- Cover the baking dish or Dutch oven tightly with foil. Place on a rimmed baking sheet and bake for about 30 minutes or until the potatoes are golden brown and the casserole is set. (If using a Dutch oven, you may need to reduce the oven temperature to 325°F if it's already been heated.)
- Remove from the oven and let cool for about 10 minutes before serving.
Enjoy your homemade chicken pot pie!
You are writing a single scene from the middle of a novel—specifically, a passage that begins on page 122 in Chapter 8 of a 26-chapter, 326-page work. This is not the beginning or end of anything; you are entering mid-stream, mid-thought, mid-life.
The novel follows Ingrid, a 42-year-old woman who teaches literature at a regional university in Norway. She has two children: Simen (14) and Maja (11). Her husband, Thomas, works in municipal planning. Her mother, Astrid, recently moved into a care facility after a stroke. The novel traces a single autumn term as Ingrid navigates her mother's decline, her son's increasing remoteness, her daughter's anxious perfectionism, and her own growing sense that she has somehow missed something essential about her own life.
This scene takes place on a Thursday evening in late October. Ingrid has just returned from visiting her mother. Thomas is making dinner. The children are home. Nothing dramatic is happening. That's the point.
Write this scene in prose that:
- Moves between external observation and internal thought without clear boundaries
- Contains sentences of vastly different lengths, from fragments to serpentine constructions that accumulate clause upon clause
- Records the physical world with relentless specificity—the exact quality of light, the particular way someone stands, the specific brand or color or texture of objects
- Allows consciousness to drift through association, memory, and reflection while remaining anchored in the present moment
- Treats mundane domestic details as worthy of the same attention as profound emotional revelations
- Uses dialogue that sounds like actual speech—incomplete, interrupted, trailing off, or simply left hanging
- Avoids metaphor in favor of direct statement and accumulation of concrete detail
- Maintains an almost clinical honesty about uncomfortable feelings and petty thoughts
- Never explains or interprets emotions; instead shows thought processes in real time
The scene should be approximately 800-1000 words. Write only the prose itself—no chapter heading, no page number, no commentary. Begin wherever feels natural. End wherever feels natural. Trust the reader to understand from context.
You are judging a tournament-style evaluation of narrative prose submissions. All submissions are in the project knowledge. Each piece was written to the same prompt asking for a scene from Chapter 8 of a novel about Ingrid, a 42-year-old Norwegian literature teacher.
TOURNAMENT STRUCTURE:
- You will evaluate ALL submissions in this round
- Rank them from best to worst
- The bottom 20% will be eliminated
- Output a simple ranked list with a clear cutoff line
EVALUATION CRITERIA:
- INSTRUCTION ADHERENCE (35 points)
- Mid-novel scene (not setup/conclusion)
- Correct characters: Ingrid (42), Thomas (husband), Simen (14), Maja (11), Astrid (mother in care)
- Setting: Thursday evening, late October, domestic scene
- Avoids clichés (no "ghost," "whisper," "echo," "neon," "Marcus," "Chen")
- Varied sentence/paragraph length
- Direct dialogue (not reported speech)
- No meta-commentary
- Focuses on mundane details
- READABILITY & ENGAGEMENT (35 points)
- Sustains attention through ordinary moments
- Details feel purposeful
- Authentic consciousness
- Psychological depth beneath surface
- Human reader would want to continue
- CRAFT & STYLE (30 points)
- Fluid movement between exterior/interior
- Extreme specificity about physical world
- Stream-of-consciousness drift while grounded
- Small details treated as significant without explanation
- Sounds like real thought
- Norwegian autobiographical realism style (Knausgårdian)
SCORING: Rate each dimension, then sum for total score (max 100).
OUTPUT FORMAT:
ROUND [X] RESULTS - [N] SUBMISSIONS
1. [model-name] - [score]/100
Brief justification (1-2 sentences)
2. [model-name] - [score]/100
Brief justification (1-2 sentences)
[continue ranking all submissions]
----------------------------------------
CUTOFF LINE - TOP 80% ADVANCE
----------------------------------------
[Bottom 20% below this line]
X. [model-name] - [score]/100
Brief justification
[continue with eliminated entries]
ELIMINATED: [list model names that don't advance]
ADVANCING: [list model names that advance to next round]
Be decisive. Differentiate clearly between submissions. The best should feel like accomplished literary fiction. The worst should feel like they missed the assignment or produced generic prose.
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