In the same period she never managed to make Ove read a single Shakespeare play.
But as soon as they moved into their row house he spent every evening for weeks on end in the toolshed.
And when he was done, the most beautiful bookcases she had ever seen were in their living room.
“You have to keep them somewhere,” he muttered, and poked a little cut on his thumb with the tip of a screwdriver.
And she crept into his arms and said that she loved him. And he nodded.
She only asked once about the burns on his arms. And she had to piece together the exact circumstances of how he lost his parental home,
from the succinct fragments on offer when Ove reluctantly revealed what had happened.
In the end she found out how he got the scars.
And when one of her girlfriends asked why she loved him she answered that most men ran away from an inferno. But men like Ove ran into it.
Ove did not meet Sonja’s father more times than he could count on his fingers.
The old man lived a long way north, a good way into the forest, almost as if he had consulted a map of all the population centers in the country
before concluding that this was as far from other people as one could live.
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