We hadn’t planned to visit the Helsinki City Museum, but it was free, nearby, and warm.
The woman at the front desk welcomed us inside, then pointed toward the elevator.
“First and third floors.”
Then she paused.
“There isn’t a second floor.”
I looked at the buttons.
She was right.
The first galleries held drawers full of old photographs.
I spent the better part of an hour sliding black-and-white prints across wooden tables.
Harbor workers.
Blizzards.
Streets buried beneath snow.
Floods swallowing the waterfront.
Whenever I settled on one photographer, Dani would hand me another print.
“No, look at this one.”
Soon I was photographing the backs of my favorite prints, so I could find them later in the gift shop.
The elevator skipped from one to three.
Outside the gallery sat a folding table covered in papers.
At the top, in bold letters:
WARNING—THIS EXHIBIT CONTAINS DISTURBING MATERIAL UNSUITABLE FOR CHILDREN AND SENSITIVE VISITORS
We were asked to sign our names before entering.
We did.
Inside, televisions flickered through disasters, shootings, and crowds running from things I couldn’t quite make out before the image cut away again.
Another room contained almost nothing.
A mannequin hung in the darkness.
A blacklight flashlight rolled on the floor.
Dani turned it on.
Fluorescent handprints glowed against the figure’s skin.
Neither of us stayed.
By the time we reached recordings of shouted voices behind headphones, I’d stopped trying to experience the exhibit the way it wanted us to.
I simply wanted out.
Downstairs, I found the gift shop.
The photography I wanted to buy sat on the counter.
Instead, I pulled out a chair and sat—if just for a minute.
Dani woke me sometime later.
“We have to go.”
The lights were off.
The museum had already closed.
Across the way, the terminal stood dark and empty.
No lights glowed inside the building.
No passengers waited outside with luggage.
And no ferries sat behind the terminal.
A mile away, another ship towered above the harbor beside a building labeled TERMINAL 1 in giant illuminated letters.
“Let’s go there,” Dani said.
I looked at our tickets. They still said Terminal 2.
We ran anyway.
By the time we reached the harbor, the ferry rose above us like an apartment building covered in lights.
Inside, the terminal was almost luxurious compared with the abandoned building we’d left behind: a glass atrium, escalators, polished floors, rows of waiting passengers.
Then the doors opened, and we boarded.
Long corridors twisted through rows of bolted-down chairs upholstered in neon zigzag fabric. Disco balls hung from the ceilings above worn carpeting.
Dani wanted another giant Toblerone from the duty-free shop, but metal gates covered the entrance.
Nothing was open.
Not the cafés.
Not the bars.
And not even the shops.
Dani found a seat near the entrance while I wandered the ship alone, looking for somewhere we could sleep.
More corridors.
Chairs.
Carpeting.
I moved upstairs.
Every floor looked the same.
At last, I passed a stage where a small band played halfheartedly to six silent passengers seated near the front.
Near the upper floors, I found a cluster of oversized fabric chairs around low coffee tables. They didn’t recline, but they looked soft enough to sleep on.
I memorized the route back through the maze and returned for Dani.
She was still sitting where I’d left her, eyes closed but not asleep.
“Come on. I found somewhere we can survive until Tallinn.”
~
An hour later, the boat stopped. Turned. Backed up. And stopped again.
The doors opened, and we all exited.
Most of the passengers who stepped off the ferry climbed straight into taxis.
We kept walking.
Dani followed her map through the quiet streets of Tallinn’s old town.
Snow dusted the cobblestones.
Gothic churches rose above shuttered cafes and dark shop windows filled with wooden toys.
The city had gone still for the night.
Our rental occupied one of the old stone buildings inside the walls.
Just as the host had promised, a lockbox hung beside the front door. Dani entered the code, retrieved a ring with two keys.
One unlocked the building.
The other was for our room.
Inside, the hallway was dim.
The instructions ended there.
No apartment number.
No floor.
Nothing.
Dani held up her phone as a flashlight, while I turned the keys over in my hand.
A brass tag hung from the ring.
In the poor light, its looping script looked like a seven—or maybe a one, or maybe a five.
The first floor had six doors.
None matched.
At the end of the hall, a wooden staircase climbed into the darkness.
We hauled our bags upward as quietly as we could, each step answering with a loud groan beneath our boots.
At the top, a small brass number hung beside the first door.
7
The shape of the script looked close enough.
Dani slid the key into the lock.
It turned once with a sharp click.
She pushed.
Nothing.
She pushed harder.
Still nothing.
With one sharp motion, she handed me the key.
I stopped to study the lock.
It reminded me of old hotels I’d stayed in years earlier.
I turned the key again.
Click.
Again.
Click.
One more time.
The bolt slid free, and the door swung inward.