Page 59 of Snowman

I sat in thecorner of the dark living room, my knees pulled to my chest. The air felt so heavy, thick with the smell of mold, smoke, and lingering animal fur, maybe. Lena's soft humming sang faintly as she moved through the house, lighting candles one by one. Their light cast long shadows across the room, making it even smaller, and more stifling.

I looked around, my eyes catching on the framed photos on the walls. Images of her and Thor's family stared back at me, their faces stood frozen in time. I couldn't connect it, any of it, no matter how hard I tried. Never in a million years would I have guessed the woman who greeted Joe and Laura, on the day we arrived, was Thor's mother.

Was this his house all along?If it was, he only told me half of the story, or maybe even less.

I looked toward the kitchen. There were papers everywhere, sticky notes taped on surfaces, each with scribbled words asreminders. They didn't feel random, and Lena didn't seem like the kind of woman who forgot things often. I knew there was something else behind it. The whole house was like a puzzle as if every creak of the floorboards and every whisper of air contained some piece with a deeper meaning.

I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself tighter.

The place felt alive in a way that made my skin crawl. I lowered my head, pressing my face into my arms, letting the tears come quietly. My chest burned with the weight of it all.

Soft footsteps came closer.

"Why tears?" Lena said calmly, almost detached.

I looked up, meeting her eyes, sharp and cold. She saw right through me.

"If you miss him," she said, lighting a pipe and slipping it between her lips, "he won't be back soon." She lowered herself into a wooden chair, crossing her legs. Smoke curled around her face as she leaned back, and exhaled.

"I..." My throat tightened, and I swallowed hard. "I lost my sister today."

Her hand paused close to her face, the pipe resting just shy of her lips. She didn't react the way I expected, no pity or shock. Instead, she scanned my face like she was turning my words over in her mind, expecting something else from me.

"When you're in pain," she said after a long moment, "it's better to keep your mind busy. Ask me anything. I'll answer. Maybe it'll take your mind off her."

I nodded, but my thoughts felt like a scattered glass all over me. There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but none of them formed. My eyes moved back to the kitchen, to the yellow sticky notes dotting the walls and counters.

"Why all the notes?" I asked finally, looking back at her.

Lena didn't answer right away. Instead, she stood, taking the candle from the table with her.

"Come with me," she said, the pipe still between her teeth.

I followed her to the stairs near the entrance. She led the way, slowly moving, one hand holding the wooden railing. Each step groaned under her, the sound so sharp in the stillness around us. The air got colder as we reached the last step, and my heart panicked just a little.

At the bottom of the stairs, she stopped in front of a door and pushed it open. The room inside felt so dark, with low light. I could still see the sticky notes, they were everywhere. The walls were covered with them, a sea of yellow squares scrawled with handwriting that ranged from neat to hurried.

Lena moved to a lamp in the corner, using the candle to light it. The warm glow lit the room, and she turned back to me.

"How much do you know about Thor?" she asked.

I hesitated. "I know about Snowman," I said finally, my voice barely steady. "If that's what you mean."

Her lips twitched like she might smile, but the expression never fully slipped to her lips. "No," she said.

She plucked a sticky note from the wall and handed it to me. The paper was flimsy between my fingers.

"I knew Thor was different from an early age," she said. "He used to have nightmares, and when he woke up, things would just disappear. Sometimes it was just small objects that he moved without remembering. Sometimes it was more than that."

"Sleepwalking?" I asked, staring at the note in my hand. The words on it were so far away as if they weren’t meant for me to see.

Mommy: No.

Erik: No.

Dad: Yes.

Joe: Yes.

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