Some Kind of Peace by Camilla Grebe, Åsa Träff

way to where the softly rounded, gray granite cliffs begin. Along the side of the shed, nettles grow yard-high. Every spring I tell myself I should dig them up, but of course I don’t. Sometimes I find comfort in knowing that I am incapable of change; it gives me a sense of security in a world where nothing is constant and reliable. I embrace my own passivity and think, full of self-pity, that I can’t be expected to just pick myself up and continue to live as if nothing happened, after the kind of slap in the face I received. It would be more or less like climbing out of a burning car wreck, brushing away the soot with a smile, and asking whether there’s a good restaurant nearby.
    I see it often in my work: how people develop mannerisms and sometimes even outright damaging behaviors to shield themselves against life. I always force them to confront their fears. Subdue them. Dare to live in the present, for what it is. Even if it hurts. I know exactly how to do it, there are well-proven methods.
    I’m just not able to do it myself.
    The last rays of sun tinge the cliffs outside bright orange, and I shiver—still in my wet swimsuit after a swim—as I stand inside at the French windows, my hand on the glass.
    A faint scratching noise interrupts my musings. As if a twig were scratching against my front door. A faint… scraping. As if a dozen fingernails were scratching weakly on a cloth.
    My initial reaction is fear. It comes instinctively, without my consciously assessing the situation. Suddenly, all my senses are heightened: I can clearly see individual pinecones outlined against the orange sky, the faded seed heads of chervil at the edge of the lawn that resemble stylized fireworks against a backdrop of dense gray stone.
    And the sound.
    It’s as if a child was writing on my door with a pencil. A tentative, dry scraping that comes and goes. Rhythmically. Like sprawling words formed by a small child’s unsteady hands.
    I walk slowly toward the hall, without a plan, simply trying to make my steps as quiet as possible. Halfway there it hits me: Ziggy, of course, it’s Ziggy—he’s come back! Maybe he’s injured and weak, trying to get my attention.
    I cover the last few yards in two long bounds, heave myself against the worn but massive oak door, and open it to the forest on the other side. The sun has gone down and only a faint grayish-blue sheen remains between the knotty pine trunks. Ferns, blueberry branches, and moss spread out before me, but I can’t see Ziggy’s round little cat form anywhere. I step tentatively out on the wooden steps.
    “Ziggy!” My voice echoes thin and toneless in the summer evening.
    But except for the far-off sound of a motorboat, everything is quiet. And then there’s something else. The sound of something fragile snapping. Like twigs, small, thin twigs. I imagine Ziggy wandering confusedly among the ferns and moss-covered boulders. Injured and disoriented.
    “Ziggy, come here, kitty!”
    But there’s no cat coming my way.
    I go back inside and get my big flashlight from the bedroom and grip it firmly in my right hand as I carefully step outside again.
    “Ziiiggy!”
    The evening air is damp and filled with the saturated aroma of moldering plant parts and pine trees. I turn on the flashlight and aim it atthe woods. The trunks of the pines cast irregular shadows that resemble grotesque elongated figures that fall time and again as I sweep the beam of light from left to right. A bat flies through the light with jerky movements.
    “Ziggy! Come, buddy! Come to Mama!”
    Slowly I walk among the pines at the edge of the forest. I am still barefoot, in my swimsuit. The pine needles stick in the soles of my feet, but it doesn’t bother me. All I want is to find Ziggy.
    I reach the clothesline. The sheets that I hung out to dry this morning reflect the strong light from the flashlight and I squint involuntarily.
    “Ziggy!”
    But no Ziggy appears.
    In the corner of my eye I perceive