Sweden.
Approaching dusk.
Thick fog.
Dark trees.
A small house in a clearing surrounded by woods.
Two figures huddled close on porch steps.
Hot drinks.

He pulls the heavy, wool sweater over his head. A cloud of vapor breath escapes his mouth.

“I like spending time here, away from the city,” he says. “All the nighttime noises from the forest; they’re magnified.”

I shift in my seat to get warmer. Bits of frozen gravel crunch under my boots.

“You only have the essentials here, you know? Sparse living.”

“I like it,” I offer in response. “Everything is placed strategically, everything cared for and put in its proper place.”

“I only have one of everything. I had to go buy extra cups and plates and stuff when you told me you were visiting.”

Silence. A deeper silence here, surrounded by the listening trees.

“Do you ever get lonely?”

“All the time,” he said, turning his head and looking into my eyes.

I returned a questioning gaze, probing, mentally asking him to clarify, but he shifted his gaze back to the woods.

“Discussing the beauty of transience with others makes that aching loneliness feel better. All that longing inside of us. Just for that brief moment, it’s like the other person can echo your own longing, fill up that empty cavern in you.”