SIGRID

The narrow black iron bed, wooden walls, the ceiling with slightly neglected beams, the old armchair by the window, and a few wooden trunks in the corner.

Everything looks worn down, broken—but not dirty, not unpleasant.

“I remembered my parents' cabin. Last night, I brought you here. It's a place I've always wanted to return to,” he confessed, and my heart squeezed at his words.

He hasn’t outright said it, but I think his parents are dead. Maybe they died trying to save him when he was