Buried Angels

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They had decided to renovate their way out of the grief. Neither of them was sure it was a good plan, but it was the only one they had. The alternative was to lie down and slowly pine away.

Ebba ran the scraper over the outside wall of the house. The paint was coming away easily. It had already started to flake off in big chunks, so all she had to do was help it along. The July sun was so hot that her fringe was sticking to her forehead, which was damp with sweat, and her arm ached because it was the third day in a row she’d carried out this same monotonous, up-and-down motion. But she welcomed the physical pain. The worse it got, the more it muted the ache in her heart, at least for a while.

She turned around and looked at Tobias, who was working on the lawn in front of the house, sawing boards. He seemed to sense that she was watching him, because he glanced up and raised a hand in greeting, as if she were an acquaintance he was meeting on the street. Ebba felt her own hand respond with the same awkward gesture.

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