Then he told her everything in a composed voice, while caressing her hands in his, as if they were very, very cold.
He told her about the driver smelling of wine and the bus veering into the crash barrier and the collision.
The smell of burned rubber. The earsplitting crashing sound. And about a child that would never come now. And she wept.
An ancient, inconsolable despair that screamed and tore and shredded them both as countless hours passed.
Time and sorrow and fury flowed together in stark, long-drawn darkness.
Ove knew there and then that he would never forgive himself for having got up from his seat at that exact moment,
for not being there to protect them. And knew that this pain was forever. But Sonja would not have been Sonja if she had let the darkness win.
So, one morning, Ove did not know how many days had passed since the accident,
expressing herself quite succinctly, she declared that she wanted to start having physiotherapy.
And when Ove looked at her as if it were his own spine screaming like a tortured animal every time she moved,
she gently leaned her head against his chest and whispered: “We can busy ourselves with living or with dying, Ove. We have to move on.”
And that’s how it was. In the following months, back in Sweden, Ove met innumerable men in white shirts.
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