Sedan barndomen har Frank alltid drömt om att bo i Stockholm. Men när hans dröm till slut blev verklighet insåg han att det var ett misstag.

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Author I want to knowReading 3 minViews 5Published by March 10, 2026

Född och uppvuxen på landet, visade Frank alltid ett vänligt och artigt uppträdande. När han fyllde 18 tog han beslutet att flytta till Stockholm för att hitta ett arbete, trots att hans familj försökte avråda honom. De tyckte att han lika gärna kunde arbeta kvar hemma på gården, men Frank var beslutsam och lyssnade inte på deras råd.

Hans mamma, som hade tagit hand om honom ensam sedan hans pappa gick bort alldeles för tidigt, ville inte gärna släppa honom iväg till storstaden. Frank fortsatte att studera och utbildade sig till bilmekaniker. Han skickade större delen av sina intjänade kronor hem för att hjälpa sin mamma att klara sig. Han gifte sig, men efter fem år tog äktenskapet slut eftersom hans fru var missnöjd med deras ekonomi. Trots detta var Frank omtyckt bland släkt och vänner.

Ändå trivdes Frank aldrig helt med staden. Han blev besviken när han insåg att många problem bara gick att lösa med pengar. Han längtade efter ett enklare liv med mer mening.

När han ringde sin mamma pratade de ofta om livet hemma i byn. Hon föreslog att han skulle flytta tillbaka, eftersom det fanns gott om jobb där. Ett annat råd var att han kanske kunde bli tillsammans med deras gemensamma vän, Linnea. Frank hade känslor för Linnea, men hans andra hustru – också från Stockholm – lämnade honom på grund av ekonomiska svårigheter.

Vid 40 års ålder bestämde sig Frank för att återvända till byn. Han fick arbete på den lokala sågverkfabriken, och den nya tillvaron gav honom stor glädje. Nu insåg han det verkliga värdet av ett samhälle där man stöttar och litar på varandra. Frank träffade Linnea igen och de gifte sig. Kort därefter fick de sitt första barn.

Det viktigaste av allt var att Franks beslut att flytta hem blev till enorm glädje för hans mamma. Han förstod plötsligt innebörden av det svenska ordspråket: Där människor är, finns det vinst. Med det nya livet, omgiven av byns värme och gemenskap, har Frank funnit riktig tillfredsställelse och en känsla av mening.

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Sedan barndomen har Frank alltid drömt om att bo i Stockholm. Men när hans dröm till slut blev verklighet insåg han att det var ett misstag.

The Spare Chair A box of Christmas decorations had been sitting on the kitchen table for three days. Nadine ran her palm over the lid as she walked past, heading toward the kettle. She turned on the gas, leaned her hip against the sink, and caught herself thinking, yet again, that she wanted to shove the box back into the loft cupboard. She and Victor used to bring it down at the beginning of December. He’d grumble about the early start, but would still climb the stool to untangle the dusty strings. There was a bauble wrapped in newspaper, a Father Christmas figurine with a broken nose, tinsel that clung to sweaters. Now, the stool stood empty against the wall. In the spring, her son had carried the box down when he visited for the fortieth day; since then, it hadn’t moved. The kettle grumbled and Nadine turned off the gas. She dropped a teabag in her mug and flicked on the light above the cooker. The kitchen was instantly filled with harsh yellow and felt smaller. Four chairs around the table, just like always. Victor’s warm flannel shirt still hung on the chair nearest the window—it had been there since April. Nadine hadn’t done anything about it. Folding it away seemed like betrayal. Leaving the chair bare felt even worse. Her phone buzzed on the windowsill. A message from her son: a photo of her granddaughter at nursery, the children building a snowman from cotton wool. “Mum, how are you? We’ve got a rehearsal for the holiday play, I’ll call later.” Nadine stared at the screen until the letters blurred. She answered briefly, like she’d learned to do these past months: “I’m fine. Just keeping busy. Don’t worry about me.” Keeping busy was simple. Yesterday, a young woman from the council had dropped in with utility bills and a paper about recalculating. Nadine needed to go to the council office, sign a form. She was almost out of pills for her blood pressure. The doctor had warned her not to skip a dose. She knew all this, but getting herself out the door was harder than washing curtains had ever been. The doorbell rang. She flinched, set her mug down, and went to answer. Rita, her neighbour from the landing, stood outside, woolly hat on, carrier bag in hand. “Nadine, hello! I just popped down the shops—they had a deal on tangerines. I bought too many, thought I’d bring you some.” She handed over the bag, the fruit scenting the air with winter’s sweet-sour. “Oh, you really shouldn’t,” Nadine sighed. “I still have some left.” “I won’t eat them all anyway, please take them. How are you… holding up?” Rita glanced down, as if startled by her own question. “I’m living,” Nadine said. “Thank you. Do come in for a minute?” “Oh, I’d better dash, the kids at home, homework. Call if you need anything, won’t you? I changed the bulb on the landing, anyway, so it’s not so gloomy. It’ll be easier for you in the evenings.” Nadine nodded, though she almost never went out in the evenings. She closed the door, leaning her back against it. The bag of tangerines chilled her hand. She returned to the kitchen, set the fruit beside the Christmas box, sighed, and pulled Victor’s chair closer. Sitting down, the chair creaked, the wooden back pressed against her differently now. She used to sit opposite, facing the window. Now she stared at the blank wall where last year’s paper garland used to hang. The thought of hanging a garland again felt awkward, almost shameful. Like throwing a party without the person who made those celebrations matter. Doctors and friends kept saying she should carry on, that time heals. Right now, time just reminded her of all the things in the house better left untouched. Three weeks remained until New Year. In the yard, the snow had turned to grey heaps, firecracker burns smudging it. Every morning, Nadine watched the caretaker labour with his shovel, then made porridge and switched on the TV—just for some voice in the flat. She couldn’t watch long. TV hosts shouted about bargains and miracles until she felt sick. Her friend called. Sue was never delicate, but she stuck by Nadine. “Nads, I’ve booked tickets for the concert at the community centre, the thirtieth. Come with me. You can’t just sit alone…” “I’m not sure, Sue. I have all this paperwork, my medicine…” “The paperwork will wait. At least get out for an hour, see some people.” She gave a doubtful answer; Sue promised to call back and ‘finish winning her over’. After the call, Nadine looked at Victor’s jacket, still draped neatly on the chair. She slipped her fingers in the pocket, though she knew it was empty. Just the lining and an old crumpled bus ticket left since the spring. By evening, she brought the box of decorations into the living room, set it on the floor, and opened the lid—the musty smell of old wadding and glass floated up. She ran a finger over a sparkling bauble’s ribs, remembering Victor’s complaints when she hung them too close to the window, “so it looks nice from the street!” It all came to life so sharply that she had to close the box again and nudge it to the wall. Let it stay there. The pills finally ran out in the morning. Nadine checked drawers for an old blister pack—nothing. She had to wrap up, pull on her coat, hat, gloves. Victor’s winter parka still hung beside hers; she looked away as she zipped up. Outside, the wind stung. Breathing the chill felt different, like it had changed over these months. Nadine walked slowly along the building, past piles of snow, toward the bus stop. The pharmacy was three blocks. She decided to walk. The bus rattled past at the traffic light; glancing in, she saw familiar tired faces. The pharmacy was crowded—everyone remembered their ailments before New Year. Inside smelled of iodine and cheap perfume. Nadine joined the queue, clutching her bag. On one side, a man coughed; on the other, a young woman scrolled her phone. “Pressure pills too?” asked someone up ahead. She looked up. A short, grey-haired man in a green coat held a slip with the drug’s name. “Yes,” Nadine replied. “I take them all the time.” “I’ve just started,” he said, sighing. “The doctor says age creeps up. I still think it’s odd. Only yesterday I was playing street hockey.” She smiled faintly, her eyes serious. “Oh, yesterday,” she said, lips twitching. “I’m sixty already. Yesterday I was dropping my son at nursery, now I’m waiting here every month.” “Well, we live, don’t we,” said the man. “If we’re still waiting.” The queue moved, the conversation faded. While she was at the till, she heard his voice behind her: “You’re from our block, yes? You look familiar.” “Yes. Second entrance.” “I’m in the first. Well—see you round, then.” She nodded and left. Neither asked names. No more was needed. But walking home felt a touch lighter. As if someone wiped the glass between her and the street. Days melted like snow on the window ledge. She never went to the council office, though the paper lay on the hall stand. Sue called several more times, coaxed her about the concert. Nadine eventually claimed she wasn’t feeling great—which wasn’t far from the truth. Her chest burned, her head pounded like with flu, though the thermometer showed normal. On New Year’s Eve, she woke early. No special plans. Her son had rung the night before, offering to buy her a ticket and bring her along for the holidays, but he had his own concerns, and Nadine insisted the winter travel was tough—she’d come herself in March. It mattered that she wasn’t just a suitcase shuttled back and forth, wrapped in care. She cooked macaroni, sliced half a sausage, opened a tin of green peas. The salad was tiny, just enough to fit a cereal bowl. They used to make a whole basin, eating leftovers till the third. She covered it, put it in the fridge. Left the tangerines untouched. They glowed in the bowl, bright as ornaments. The clinic called, reminding her of a postponed doctor’s appointment. She scribbled the date in her January diary. Then she opened the package of a new tablecloth, bought before spring, and spread it out. Her fingers quivered as she approached Victor’s usual place at the table. Now, there was just emptiness. By evening, messages dinged in her app: an aunt from another city, the allotment neighbour, a cousin. Templated Christmas cards with trees and greetings. Nadine replied with short “thank you” and “you too.” One stung: “this will be the best year of your life.” She muted the phone and left it on the hall dresser. From the next flat came laughter, dishes clattering, the scent of roasting meat wafting into the hall. Half the block watched TV, judging by the steady rumble. Nadine walked her little circle from room to kitchen, checking switches though she knew everything was off. The kettle cooled; an extension cord lay curled on the stool that used to hold the decorations box. Ten to midnight she sat on the sofa. Turned the TV on mute. Hosts danced, confetti flew, people waved mini flags. The new year sidled closer, unasked. She looked at Victor’s chair with the shirt, at her empty mug. Closed her eyes. The simple truth crept up: the clock will chime, the fireworks go off, everyone will call, wish her well as if nothing’s changed, expect her to sound cheerful. The corridor light clicked on, someone stepped onto the landing. Voices, elevator doors thudding. Nadine stood up abruptly, grabbed the rubbish bin, checked the knotted bag on top. She pulled on her slippers and cardigan. No logic—just the need to step out of the circle between TV and chair. She opened her door just as the first fireworks cracked over the city. Sound reverberated through the building, rattling windows. On the landing stood Rita, her husband in joggers, and—surprisingly—the greying man from the pharmacy. They leaned over the windowsill, watching colourful bursts over the courtyard. “Oh, Nadine!” Rita turned. “Happy New Year. Off to the bins? Come watch with us—good view here.” Nadine felt awkward, clutching her bin bag. “I just… wanted to throw this out.” “Do it after,” said the man in green. “This show’s too good to miss.” He shifted, making room at the sill. Nadine set the rubbish down, joining them. Outside, the fireworks crackled. Down by the playground, someone shouted “hurrah,” someone whistled, lights from mobiles flickered in the dark. “That’s my brother, Alex,” said Rita, nodding at the man. “He’s staying over for the holidays.” “Hello,” he said. “We met in the pharmacy.” “I remember,” replied Nadine. The five stood tight together, shoulder to shoulder. The landing smelled of fried food from Rita’s flat, cold draught from the window, and tangerine peel from a plate on the sill. Someone played the clock chimes on their phone. Rita hurriedly poured a dash of cheap champagne into plastic cups. “Let’s have a sip,” she said. “Just for luck.” Nadine wanted to refuse, but her fingers gripped the cup. She took a small sip. The wine was sweet and icy, but the warmth filled her chest. “So,” Alex said. “To… us living, in our own way.” The phrase hung awkwardly, but no one tried to clarify. They clinked plastic rims; someone said “happy new year.” Nadine found herself bracing—waiting to hear mention of Victor, or how tough things must be. But Rita just touched her elbow. “If you need anything, come over,” she whispered. “Even just for tea. We watch old films in the evenings.” “Thank you,” Nadine nodded. Fifteen minutes later, she was heading back to her flat, bin bag dispatched. In the hall, she shed her slippers and hung up her cardigan. She didn’t bother turning the TV on again. Outside, the fireworks faded, as if someone had turned down the world’s volume. She took the salad from the fridge, spooned some into a bowl, tasted. The peas crunched as always. She ate slowly, looking at the chair with the shirt. At one point, she got up, approached, and took the shirt away. Folded it gently, pressed it to her chest. It smelled of old washing powder. She hung it in her wardrobe, not with distant things, but right beside her own jumpers. Back in the kitchen, she picked up the chair, moved it carefully to the window. The wooden legs scraped over the floor. She checked how it sat in its new spot. The view was different: she could see the nursery, glowing windows in other flats. Nadine imagined having tea here in the mornings, watching the first cars pull out. The thought that she would now sit here in his place was both painful and calming. The chair was no longer monumental, frozen in the past; it was simply a chair by the window. After the holidays, the city fell quiet again. Shops cleared away their loud banners, people shed their huge bags. Nadine finally made it to the council office, queued for her pension form. On the way home, she stopped for vitamins. There was barely a line at the pharmacy. The assistant behind the counter paged through a magazine. At the tea shelf, a woman in a puffer coat examined boxes. “Excuse me,” she said, turning. “Have you tried this chamomile one? What’s it like?” “Normal,” Nadine answered, stepping closer. “I drink it at night. No miracles, but it’s fine.” The woman smiled. “Nothing’s a miracle these days,” she said. “My husband died last year. I kept searching for something to make it easier. Nothing does. Except forcing yourself up in the morning and buying more tea.” She spoke plainly, without tears. More a matter of fact. “Mine too,” Nadine replied softly. “In the spring.” They looked at each other, their gaze holding a second. “Let’s both get the chamomile,” the woman suggested. “That way, somewhere else, someone’s drinking just the same.” “Let’s.” The conversation lasted a minute. No names, no numbers, no promises. But outside, the air pricked less sharply. Nadine realised she was thinking not about going home to lie on the sofa, but about popping into the shop for bread, picking up some greens for soup. At home, she unpacked on the kitchen table, automatically glancing at the chair by the window. Her own wool shawl hung over the back; the latest newspaper lay on the sill. She sat down, arranged the groceries, tipped tangerines into a bowl, threw out the old ones. Her phone pinged quietly in the other room. A message from Sue: “So—survived? I’ll pop round next week, agreed?” Nadine smiled and tapped a reply: “I’ll be home. Come by. I’ll make apple cake.” She opened her diary, wrote the date for the doctor’s appointment in “January.” Just below, she added: “Tea at Rita’s.” Rita had invited again in the lift, said she had too many cabbage pasties and an old war film to watch together on TV. Nadine hadn’t refused. Her flat was quiet as ever. Silence no longer frightened her the way it had that April morning she first woke up without Victor’s snoring nearby. Now, it made room for rustling pages, knife tapping on the board, muffled TV sounds from next door. She stood up, took the newspaper and put it on her window chair. Brewed a cup of chamomile and set it there too. Sat, tucked her slippers under her feet, and gazed outside. The yard was grey, the low snow an even sheet. On the playground, two boys in bright hats shaped a lopsided snowman, one trying to stick on a carrot and laughing when it fell. Beyond them, a woman strolled her dog. Someone shook a rug in the window across. Nadine sipped her tea. It was smoky and simple. She felt the deep fatigue, but the kind you could live with: waking, going to the pharmacy, accepting guests, answering messages. Victor’s memory lingered. The empty place at the table remained. Now, beside it, stood the chair at the window, the one she sat in. She turned the newspaper’s page, pausing on the TV listings. Tonight was a classic film they’d watched together long ago. Nadine thought she might call Rita, or just watch herself, wrapped in her shawl. A whole year stretched ahead. No guarantees, no special joy like in holiday postcards. Just a lot of days to visit the doctor, shop, see friends, invite them in. And sometimes, returning home, not being afraid to switch on the light. She set her mug on the sill and nudged the chair closer to the radiator. Heat radiated through her feet. Nadine felt the tight knot inside her relax—a little, not dissolving, just growing softer. Outside, someone threw a snowball against the entrance glass and ran off. The clock in the room ticked quietly. Nadine stroked the smooth, wooden chair back and thought that tomorrow, she’d walk in the yard among the snowdrifts and stop by the pharmacy for more chamomile. Just in case—so as not to sit idle. And then come back here, to this chair by the window, and keep living—as she knows how now.