22 February. On Wednesday night, I had an errand at the store in the village where we lived when we first came to the island. Having some time to waste, I went to the library.

In Denmark you can open all public libraries with your social security card, so although it was closed, I walked in. The stacks lit up. It was like entering a Proustian memory. The stale, dry air reactivated feelings I had forgotten, feelings I had when I sat down here writing four years ago. I remembered my loneliness; I felt it with a defencelessness that I had denied myself at the time. Standing there with my groceries in hand, the intensity of the feelings took me by surprise. The feeling that writing was impossible; that I would never find a place in the world that felt like home; that no one except my wife would ever care about me, about the things that for me held meaning.

I walked over to the chair where I used to sit. The sensation that he, my previous self, was still sitting there was so strong that I pulled out the chair next to it instead, and sat down. It was as if I could see him but he couldn’t see me. He thought he was alone. He wasn’t. I had been there all along. I just couldn’t reach him to tell him that it was okay, that it would work out if he just kept at it. One more year, and you will learn what you need for your writing to work. Two more years, and you’ll find friends who you can share your ideas with.

I felt a deep gratitude to him, for all he has given me, all the experiences and friendships that make my life better than his, and which his willingness to persevere brought into existence. “If you only knew,” I said out loud in the empty library, “how thankful I am for what you have done.” Something eased in me.

Then I turned and noticed, behind me—a third chair.

/Henrik Karlsson