Page 109 of Johan.

Finally, just as I'm about to give up, the call connects. “Hello?” Astrid's voice is flat, devoid of its usual sharpness.

“Astrid, it’s Hannah. I'm in front of your house. I need to talk to you,” I say, my voice shaking slightly with urgency.

“I'm not home,” she replies, her tone unconvincing, almost mechanical.

Confused, I glance at the gates. “Aren't you at Goschen Hall? I'm, eh, right in front of the gates.”

There's a heavy sigh on the other end, followed by a long pause. “Fine,” she says finally. “Come in.”

The iron gates creak open slowly, revealing the long driveway leading up to the mansion. The Uber rolls forward, the sound of gravel crunching under the tires filling the silence. We come to a stop in front of the grand entrance, and I step out, thanking the driver before he drives away.

Astrid emerges from the shadows, her figure outlined by the dim porch light. Her face is pale, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed as if she's been crying for hours. The sight of her like this twists something in my chest.

“Astrid,” I approach her softly, the concern evident in my eyes. “Are you okay?”

She shrugs, a tired motion that seems to pull her entire frame down. “I had better days.” A heavy silence settles between us, the weight of unspoken words pressing down.

“I need to talk to you,” I break the stillness, my voice gentle but firm. “It’s important.”

“Alright,” she replies after a moment, her voice weary but accepting. “Come, let’s get inside. It’s freezing out here.”

We step inside the grand hall, and the vast space feels strangely cold and silent without the usual bustle of staff and guests. The high ceilings and expansive rooms echo our footsteps as we walk through. I look around, noticing the absence of the familiar faces that usually fill the hall with life.

“It’s kinda empty. Where’s Lauren and the rest of the staff?” I ask, my voice bouncing off the walls.

“I sent them away,” Astrid replies, her voice devoid of emotion. “I needed some time to myself.”

The living room is dimly lit, the shadows from the flickering fireplace dancing on the walls. A self-help book titledLife After Lovelies discarded on the couch, while a half-empty bottle of vodka sits on the table, a lonely glass beside it. I inhale deeply, bracing myself for the difficult words that are about to leave my mouth.

“Look,” I begin, my voice trembling, “despite everything that you did to me and Johan, I believe people deserve a second chance.”

Astrid turns to me, her arms crossed defensively. “A second chance?” she echoes, her tone filled with skepticism. “What do you?—”

“Please let me speak,” I cut her off, meeting her gaze. “I know everything you did was because you were hurting from whatIdid.” Astrid rolls her eyes and huffs at me instantly, but I keep going. “And Isincerelyandtrulyapologize for not telling you the truth about Johan the moment I saw him at the exhibition. It's just…” I stop mid-sentence, trying to find the right words to put on. “I didn't want to ruin our friendship.”

Her eyes flash with a mixture of pain and anger. “Hiding the truth did way worse,” she retorts, her voice breaking slightly. “You knew what my best friend had done, you knew the trauma I went through, and yet, you did the exact same thing.”

“I know,” I admit, my tone barely above a whisper. “The way I handled things was wrong. And I'm so sorry, Astrid. I messed up, and I’m truly sorry for everything I did. If I give you a second chance, will you do the same?”

We stand there in silence for a moment, the weight of our shared history hanging heavily between us. Finally, Astrid letsout a long sigh. “I'm gonna cook myself something. You wanna stay over for a late dinner?”

Relief floods through me, and I nod. “I'd like that.”

We move to the kitchen, the familiar routine of preparing food bringing a semblance of normalcy. The clatter of pots and pans, the rhythmic chop of vegetables, it all feels oddly soothing. Astrid’s expression softens, the tension in her shoulders easing as we fall into a comfortable rhythm.

“Can I ask you a very peculiar question?” Astrid’s tone is hesitant, almost fragile.

“Of course,” I reply, glancing at her curiously as I start slicing a bell pepper.

“Do you remember the first time you stole something?” she asks, her voice curious, almost playful.

I pause, a small smile tugging at my lips. “I was twelve. It was at a fair of antiquities in Amsterdam. I loved going to those fairs.”

She chuckles softly, the sound warming the room. “I can imagine. What did you take?”

“A small silver brooch. It was beautiful, and I couldn’t resist,” I confess, the memory bringing a touch of nostalgia.

Astrid nods, stirring a pot on the stove. “Do your parents know about your…peculiar habit?”

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