And then they kept turning.
Because Lilja Nyman walked into that ballroom in a blue dress with sequins on it, at ten years of age, like a woman who had paid for the building and was checking on it.
Oskar came in beside her with his hands in his pockets and his jaw set in a way that I had to look away from.
And Soren Vale stopped mid-sentence.
He did not recognise me first. I have been told that by four separate people since and all four say the same thing.
He did not look at me at all for the first four seconds.
He looked at Oskar.
A ten-year-old boy with his own face, in a borrowed jacket, eleven feet inside the door of his own gala.
And Soren Vale stopped talking in the middle of a word and did not start again.
There was a silence in that room that I would like to be able to describe properly and cannot.
