the roof of the house for the first time ever did not leak.
And the truck started every time the key was turned without as much as a splutter. Of course Sonja’s father was not openly grateful about this.
But on the other hand he never again brought up his reservations about Ove “being from town.”
And this, from Sonja’s father, was as good a proof of affection as any.
Two springs passed and two summers. And in the third year, one cool June night, Sonja’s father died.
And Ove had never seen anyone cry like Sonja cried then. The first few days she hardly got out of bed.
Ove, for someone who had run into death as much as he had in his life, had a very paltry relationship to his feelings about it,
and he pushed it all away in some confusion in the kitchen of the forest cottage.
The pastor from the village church came by and ran through the details of the burial.
“A good man,” stated the pastor succinctly and pointed at one of the photos of Sonja and her father on the living room wall.
Ove nodded. Didn’t know what he was expected to say to that one.
Then he went outside to see if anything on the truck needed fiddling with.
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