The Christmas present sat beneath the tree, wrapped in a brown paper bag.
I had drawn a thick yellow cross on it with a marker, then colored the rest blue.
Dani picked it up and turned it over in her hands.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
She tore through the paper.
Inside was a book about Skansen.
She looked at the cover, then back at me.
“No way. You found it?”
I blushed.
“Well, not really.”
~
Fifteen months earlier, we’d been walking through Stockholm toward Skansen, our backpacks on and our boots crunching over packed snow.
The water near the locks ran fast enough to stay open while the sea beyond lay frozen beneath a blanket of snow.
Ducks crowded into the narrow stretch of moving water, their bodies packed together towards shore, where the current kept the ice at bay. Their feathers glistened wet against the white banks.
Tourists gathered along the path, pointing cameras at the birds and leaning over the railing for a better view. Some wore neon-colored snowsuits that stood out against the white streets.
We kept walking.
Trees separated two parallel walking paths, one cleared by plows, the other buried beneath knee-deep snow.
We took the first.
Every couple hundred meters, a snowman stood beside the path, its round body and crooked face rising above the banks. They occupied the edges of the cleared walkways, their heads dusted and white.
They led us across Djurgården until we reached a ticket booth set before a green fence and turnstile.
Wooden buildings rose behind it.
“There it is.”
Dani pointed.
“Skansen.”
Then she pulled up her hood and tucked her hands back into her pockets. I slid my hand in her pocket too.
Cold rain hung over the empty paths. Wind reddened our cheeks.
Inside, the paths were empty.
We passed one red wooden building, then another. Their doors were shut for the winter.
No musicians played in the village squares.
No crowds gathered outside the workshops.
We kept walking.
The buildings stood in clusters across the hillside. We passed houses, churches, and workshops, all waiting behind closed doors. Here and there, a window offered a glimpse inside.
Between the clusters, we found animals. A half-dozen bears wrestled in their enclosure. An Arctic owl watched from its perch. Reindeer stood in the cold, and otters basked beneath the orange glow of heaters.
That afternoon, cold rain tapped against our hoods, and the wind swept through the quiet village.
The temperature began to drop. The wind increased.
When Dani began to shiver, we headed for the exit.
Here, in the shelter of the gift store, Dani found the souvenir book.
It showed the buildings, the animals, and the seasonal fairs, with photographs of the park crowded with visitors.
She picked it up.
“This is the one.”
I looked at the cover.
“Yeah, but it’s in German.”
She turned it over, checked the shelves, and searched through the racks.
Chinese.
Another copy.
French.
Another rack.
Spanish.
No English.
She put the book back.
~
I smiled now in the morning light—the Christmas green and lit tree behind us.
“Technically, my coworker found it.”
Dani turned the wrapping paper over in her hands. The yellow cross ran from one edge of the brown paper to the other, surrounded by blue marker.
“Well, this part is unmistakably your handiwork.”
I pointed.
“Yeah. Swedish flag.”
She laughed.
Then she opened the book.