När hon kom hem från jobbet var katten spårlöst försvunnen.

Patrik var en stillsam ung man, utan dåliga vanor, men i drömmen gled tiden som vatten genom hans fingrar. När han fyllde tjugofem, fick han av sina föräldrar en lägenhet eller kanske var det bara en nyckel till ett rum som svävade i luften, och pengar till den allra första insatsen på sitt banklån. Stockholm låg trygg och tyst runtom honom när han började leva ensam bland eternitdrömmar i sitt eget hem.

Patrik arbetade som programmerare, hans dagar var ordnade och avskilda, och på kvällarna cirklade han kring sitt eget tysta sällskap. För att lätta på tristessen bestämde han sig för att adoptera en liten kattunge den lilla med framtassarna som liksom gled och snubblade över golvet. Människorna som hade kattungens mamma ville låta den försvinna för gott, men Patrik tyckte synd om katten och tog den till sitt hjärta. Han döpte henne till Sötis, och deras liv flöt ihop i mjuka skuggor; Patrik skyndade från jobbet för att möta Sötis på hallmattan, och Sötis väntade alltid, tyst och spinnande, där.

Efter ett tag började Patrik dejta en flicka från sitt kontor. Hon hette Linnea ett namn som bara dansar på svenska läppar och var beslutsam som vinden. Hon erövrade Patriks liv så snabbt att hon redan inom en månad flyttade in i hans flytande värld.

Men Linnea uppskattade inte Sötis, hennes ögon blev hårda och hon bad Patrik, gång på gång, att göra sig av med katten. Patrik vägrade, förklarade att Sötis var hans vän, hans lugn och hans hemliga tröst. Men Linnea gav sig inte, och började återigen föreslå att Sötis måste bort hon menade att kattens udda tassar förfulade deras hem, att gästerna blev förskräckta av att se dem. Patrik tuggades sönder mellan Linnea och Sötis, för han älskade båda i detta drömlika landskap.

Hans föräldrar såg inte heller med milda ögon på Linnea. De tyckte hon var fräck och skarp, som knivar i snön. De rådde Patrik att vänta med att låta relationen bli bindande, att inte låta hennes skugga fastna för evigt.

När Linneas föräldrar kom på besök blev nattens dröm ännu mer surrealistisk. Linneas pappa skrattade som en snöstorm när han såg Sötis, kallade henne konstig. Patrik stegade fram och försvarade sin udda vän. Men hela kvällen hånade Linnea och hennes far kattens utseende, gav Patrik råd att lämna djuret, hittade på fantasifulla platser där katten kunde skickas bort först till Norrlands skogar, sedan ut i Oslös gator. Linneas mamma skrattade hon också, en frostig ljudbild kring katten.

Nästa dag, när Patrik kom hem från jobbet, var Sötis borta. Drömmen blev ett hugg. Patrik frågade Linnea och fick ett svävande svar: hon hade tagit katten till veterinärkliniken och lämnat henne där bland fremmande dofter.

Patrik gav sig ut en jakt i ett Stockholm förklädd till labyrint, letade i fem timmar bland gränder och snö, till Sötis plötsligt låg i hans famn, spinnande och lugn, som om inget någonsin hänt. När Patrik kom hem, såg han Linnea och sa åt henne att packa sina saker en rörelse nästan drömskt mekanisk och lämna hans liv. Han ville inte se henne längre; hennes skugga var nu bara en bruten gren i hans dröm.

Dagen därpå packade Linnea tyst och gick, likt ett löv i höstvinden, förvånad över att en liten svensk katt kunde vara mer värdefull än hon själv. Patrik och Sötis fortsatte att bo tillsammans; och varje kväll när Patrik kom hem, väntade Sötis på honom, och hennes spinnande blev grunden till ett nytt, stillsamt liv.

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När hon kom hem från jobbet var katten spårlöst försvunnen.
A Letter to Myself She pushed aside her plate of cold buckwheat and sat up straighter. The TV murmured about a concert, with glittering hosts flashing across the silent screen. In the kitchen, the clock ticked toward midnight. Anna Petrovna placed a blank checkered sheet in front of her, her thick plastic-framed glasses on top. The pen her son gave her last New Year lay nearby. She clicked the cap, a small jab of nerves, as if she were about to take an exam. Well then, old girl, she thought, write. You promised yourself. The idea had come a week ago, after seeing a television psychologist recommend writing letters to your future self. It seemed childish then, but stayed with her. Now, in the hush of midnight, the idea no longer felt ridiculous. She leaned in, flattened the paper with her palm to steady it, and wrote at the top: “31st December 2024. A Letter to Myself for Next New Year.” Her hand trembled, but the letters were neat, precise—her bookkeeping days of thirty years never truly left her. “Hello, Anna, now seventy-three,” she wrote, then paused. The number “seventy-three” stung. She was seventy-two now, but still jolted at that number; in her mind another, smaller number lingered. She tuned into herself. A hollow ache of hunger and nerves twisted her stomach; her back throbbed from cleaning all day. Her heart was steady but somewhere deep, the old fear: would it still beat like this next year? She leaned to the paper again. “I really hope you’re alive to read this. That you’re still walking unaided. That your hand hasn’t given out, your legs haven’t failed. That you’re not in hospital, not dependent on anyone…” She reread those lines and grimaced—too grim. But she didn’t rewrite it. Best to be honest. “I hope you haven’t become a burden to your children. That you still walk to the shops, pay your bills, handle your medicines yourself. That you don’t call them ten times a day over nothing.” She set the pen down, glancing at her phone on the windowsill. Her daughter had called an hour ago from another country—rushed, between errands, showing off a decorated tree and a sparkly granddaughter by video. Her son had texted, “Mum, Happy New Year in advance, we’re with friends, I’ll call you tomorrow.” She’d replied with a smiley and heart, just as they had shown her. “So you won’t bother them with your loneliness,” she wrote, exhaling. The word “loneliness” hung heavy, like a stone. She looked around the kitchen; her dressing gown draped over the chair, woolly socks drying on the radiator. Two plates on the table—she still set one opposite, out of habit, though she knew no one would drop by “for a minute.” It made things feel gentler. She returned to her letter. “This year, you must—” she wrote that word deliberately, “must learn to live well. Walk for at least half an hour a day. Stop eating late at night. Stop complaining about your blood pressure to everyone. Find something to do—maybe try senior yoga, or a hobby club. Talk more with people instead of sitting inside four walls. Be calm, kind, no nagging or giving advice to your kids. Be a cheerful old lady, the kind people enjoy being around.” She reread the paragraph, her chest tightening; “cheerful old lady” sounded like an advert. But that was her ideal: tidy, smiling, not drawing the focus, not being ill, not in the way. She added, “And please, don’t be afraid of the future. Don’t sit waiting for something bad. See the doctor on time. Take your medicine as you should. But don’t endlessly read about diseases online. Don’t ring your daughter every time you get a twinge. You’re grown, you can handle it.” Her hand tired. She leaned back, eyes closed—more clocks ticked in the hallway, the ones she got for her retirement. The TV concert rolled on soundlessly, singers mouthing silent songs. She finished: “Let the coming year bring at least one friend to have tea and a chat with. And I hope you won’t always feel like an extra.” She underlined “extra” twice, then erased one line. Signed: “Anna, 72.” She folded the sheet, found a leftover Christmas envelope, slipped the letter inside. On the front she wrote, “To open: 31.12.2025.” She held it up, as if testing: did she believe she’d last that long? Then she stood, tucked the envelope into the china cabinet, between old cards and photos, and turned the key. As the TV began the midnight countdown, she stood by the window with a glass of champagne, watching fireworks in the square. She pressed her palm to her chest, feeling her heart’s steady rhythm and whispered into the darkness: “Go on, year. Just be gentle, will you?” *** A year later, she found the envelope while searching for old bills. It was mid-December, still early for celebration, but shop displays were pyramids of clementines, and outside workers built the frame for the town Christmas tree. Anna sat on the floor beside a box of paperwork. Folder by folder—“Utilities”, “Medical”, “Documents”—she sorted for the social worker coming to help with her medicine compensation. The envelope slipped from an old card folder, falling to her lap. She knew her handwriting at once. Her heart jolted. “To open: 31.12.2025.” “Well, would you look at that…” she said aloud. Two weeks to go. She hesitated: put it back, wait for the day, like planned? But curiosity straightened her spine. “What’s the difference,” she muttered. “A couple weeks here or there.” She heaved herself up, sat at her table. Nails clipped neat, a trail of iodine on her thumb where she’d cut herself unscrewing a jar. She tore the envelope’s edge, pulled out the folded sheet, yellowing at the creases. Her greeting waited: “Hello, Anna, seventy-three.” “Seventy-three,” she repeated, hearing the number. A year ago, it sounded strange. Now she gave it to the surgery receptionist without pause, though it still surprised her to see a face in the mirror wearing such soft creases. She read. “I really hope you’re alive to read this. That you’re walking unaided…” Her gaze slid to the cane by the hallway wall. Black, rubber grip, bought last spring after she’d fallen on the surgery steps—wet weather, rushing while holding test results, missed a step, banged her side. The hospital cleared her bones, but the doctor had been firm: “Anna, you need a cane. And take the stairs slower.” She’d cried right there in the corridor. The cane felt so shameful—a mark of “really old.” But when pain lingered and her leg buckled, she caved. Bought it at the chemist, alongside ortho insoles. Reading last year’s “unaided,” shame rose. She’d failed her own assignment. “…so your hand hasn’t seized, your legs not failed, you’re not in hospital, not dependent on anyone…” She remembered April, a blood pressure spike so fierce she fainted. Her neighbour downstairs, Zoe, called an ambulance, stayed until Anna came home. She spent five days in a four-bed ward, listening to other women’s stories. Her daughter couldn’t fly in, her son visited once—work, he said, apologetic; but she survived. For once, she let herself just lie there, world unravelling without her surveillance. “So you walk to the shops, pay your bills, manage medication…” She smiled. In the summer, her son installed a bill-paying app on her phone. At first she’d resisted, but grew used to it; now she showed her upstairs neighbour how to use it too. Her medication was always lined up in the kitchen, a notebook tracking her pills—mostly under control. “So you don’t call them ten times a day…” She’d taped a note to the fridge: “Don’t call the kids more than once each day.” Lasted a week. Then realised she didn’t actually call so much; her daughter always messaged, sent snippets of her granddaughter. Her son called less, but when he did, he had time. She read on. “So you don’t burden them with your loneliness.” That familiar guilt. That night in March, calling her daughter only to cry and admit she struggled alone. A pause on the other end. “Mum, it’s hard for me too. But I don’t call every time I hit a wall.” The phone was left untouched for three days. She patrolled her flat, ignoring the phone, her daughter’s words echoing: “Don’t burden me.” Later, her daughter texted: “Sorry, I snapped—let’s agree, if you’re low just say so, don’t make me feel guilty, okay?” They spoke—honestly, not perfectly. After that, Anna tried to say, “I’m lonely today, can we talk?” instead of, “You’ve left me behind.” She moved on. “So this year, you must learn to live properly. Walk for at least half an hour. Don’t eat late…” She snorted—remembered doctor’s orders to walk daily after the hospital. She obeyed, first circling the block with that new cane, counting laps, sometimes finding another woman with a shaggy dog—her name, she learned, was Nora. They started walking together, moaning over prices, complaining about children, sometimes laughing until they wheezed. Once, Nora brought tea in a flask. “Like a pair of schoolgirls,” Anna thought. As for eating late—she tried. Sometimes a slice of cheese in a quiet kitchen helped more than anything else on a lonely night. “Stop moaning about blood pressure…” Clinic queues were always full of blood pressure complaints. But she found herself more interested in others’ stories now. “Find something to do—senior gym, hobby club, see more people, not just walls…” In August, she’d spotted a flyer for free pensioners’ classes: Nordic walking, chair yoga, health talks. Hesitated to take the number, finally copied it down. The first chair yoga class, she shook not just from arthritis but nerves. The instructor was soft-voiced but firm. They stretched, reached, breathed. Anna was amazed to feel her body as more than just pain—something with life left. After class, in the kitchen with tea, she met Gillian, a retired teacher from two doors down, and Lidia, who soon became a phone buddy. They started walking, going to the chemist, the market. “Be calm, kind, don’t nag or advise your kids. Be a cheerful old lady folks like.” A lump grew in her throat. In June, her son brought his family. The grandson never looked up from his phone, and Anna snapped, “You could read a book, you’ll ruin your eyes!” Her son bristled, “Mum, please don’t. He worked hard all year, leave him be.” Anna had stormed to the kitchen, slamming cupboard doors, listening to their laughter; felt unneeded. Later, her son rang: “Mum, you act like we do everything wrong. We’re not your enemies.” “I’m worried for you—and for me,” she’d answered, finally. Afterwards, calls were softer. She caught herself about to butt in, and held her tongue. “And please, don’t fear the future. Don’t sit waiting for something bad… don’t Google symptoms endlessly…” She remembered November’s week of side pain. Nearly rang her daughter, stopped herself, booked her own doctor’s appointment. A muscle, not a tumour. The GP laughed, “Good for you, being active!” The relief afterward: nothing dreadful happened. She’d managed alone, and told her daughter the story as a joke, later. She limited her phone Googling, managed to stick to half-hour sessions sometimes. “Let the coming year bring you a friend, someone to have tea and talk with…” She glanced at yesterday’s mug—Nora had visited, eaten cabbage pie, laughed about creaky knees. When Nora left, the flat felt gently warm, not empty. “And may you not constantly feel surplus.” She reread it—“surplus”—several times. Last year, it had seemed like a verdict. How often did she feel that way, she wondered. Yes, there were nights at her window, watching lights blink on and off in neighbour’s rooms; days when nobody called and she thought, “If something happened, how long until someone noticed?” But there were other times: her granddaughter’s poem on a voice note; Gillian ringing to see if she fancied the shops; Zoe knocking for help with her computer— “you’re our local expert.” She laid her letter down and reclined against her chair. There was pride for what she’d managed, shame for what she hadn’t; it mixed together inside her. She looked at her hand: skin softer, veined, speckled. This hand had gripped a cane, washed pans, stroked her granddaughter’s hair in summer. I wanted to be easy, she thought, but I am what I am. She reread the start—about “not being a burden.” She remembered how her daughter had finally come for a week; they’d shopped, sat outside together. One day, Anna overexerted, and her daughter insisted on a taxi, helped her walk the stairs. “I’m a burden to you,” Anna blurted. Her daughter paused on the landing, then replied quietly, “Mum, you’re not luggage. You’re human. Sometimes people need help. That’s perfectly normal.” That phrase had stuck harder than any other—a small shift occurred that day. Not right away, but it stayed. Now, looking at her old letter, Anna saw how much was “should,” “don’t you dare,” “stop,” “be.” She was her own harsh boss. She stood, fetched a new hardback notebook—Gillian’s birthday present: “Write your recipes or your thoughts. Don’t keep it all in your head.” Anna sat at the kitchen table, opened it, the old letter beside her, pen in hand. She sat for a long time, stuck on where to begin. Part of her wanted another list: walk, don’t moan, don’t interfere. But something else whispered that maybe it could be different. At last, she wrote: “31st December 2025. Letter to Myself for Next Year.” Paused, then struck it through. Instead wrote: “December 2025. Note to Myself.” “Hello, Anna. You’re seventy-three. You’re sitting in your kitchen, last year’s letter on the table. You’ve read it and realized most of it you haven’t ‘done.’ You still eat late. You still grumble about blood pressure. You bought yourself a cane. You cried on the phone to your daughter. You argued with your son. You didn’t become the cheerful little old lady from the adverts. But you called the doctor yourself this year. You were in hospital and didn’t die of fright. You got to know Nora and Gillian. You go to classes, lazily sometimes but you go. You laugh. Once you even gave your bus seat up for a young man who needed it more. You still sometimes feel surplus. But sometimes you feel needed. That’s something. I’m not going to tell you what you ‘must’ do. I want you to be kinder to yourself next year. If you want—walk more. If you’re tired—sit down. If you’re afraid—call someone. That’s not a crime. I want you to keep having people to have tea with. Not to be ashamed of your cane. Not to think of yourself only as a problem. You’re not a checklist. You’re you.” She stopped, reading over the lines, eyes brimming—not with self-pity, but with gentle relief. From outside came the thump of planks: workmen prepping the square. The news on TV talked of holiday snow. Anna closed her notebook, placed last year’s letter on top, held her palm over both, connecting two versions of herself. She stood, went to the window. Nora sat on a bench, bundled up, dog at her feet. Anna pulled on her coat, picked up her cane. On the threshold, she turned back, opened the notebook and added: “Today I’ll walk with Nora—just because I want to. Tonight I’ll call my daughter, not to complain, but to ask how she is.” She put the notebook in her desk drawer, not hidden away, no instruction for when to open—any day she wanted would be right. She locked the door, took the stairs slowly, cane tapping each step. Her leg ached, but she managed. The air was chilly outside, pinching her cheeks. Nora waved. “Annie, fancy a couple of laps?” she called. “Absolutely,” Anna replied, and felt something unfurl gently inside her. They set off, slow and steady, the dog’s pawprints trailing ahead. Anna listened to Nora talk about her granddaughter, and thought about the New Year coming—without loud resolutions or rigid plans. Just another year, to be lived as best she could—with respect for her strengths and softness for her failings. And somehow, that was enough.