Henrik Solberg stood at his office window on the top floor of the shipping supply company headquarters, watching the festive decorations of November blanket Oslo once again. The lights were going up along Karl Johans gate, the warm white strands were being tested by workers in yellow vests, each bulb winking on and off in sequence, like a conversation. The same lights. The same pattern. The same Oslo ritual that seemingly started earlier every year, with merchants eager to kick off the Christmas season as soon as possible.

Last year, he’d been too numb to notice any of it. This year, he noticed everything, and it was all a miserable reminder of what was coming.

Astrid had died on December 18th. In just over a month, it would be a year ago. The timing of her sudden death had felt like an immense cruelty. Bright Christmas lights shining everywhere just as his own world went completely dark. All the bright decorations of the season had faded from his awareness as reality seeped in to claim him.

He’d walked through that first holiday season in a fog, barely aware of the calendar at all. His daughters had tried to include him in some semblance of celebration, but he’d worked throughout all the vacation days. Easier that way. The office was neutral territory, thankfully empty of other people and free of the memories that relentlessly ambushed him at home.

This year, there was no fog to hide in. Just the approaching holiday and his complete lack of interest in pretending he had any desire to celebrate a single damned thing.

His phone buzzed against the glass desktop. He ignored it, watching a family cross the street below. A mother, father, and three kids bundled in dark winter coats, all of them laughing about something. Steam rose from a street vendor’s cart between them, the smell of roasted almonds probably drifting up, though Henrik’s sealed window let nothing through. The youngest child stopped to look at the lights, pointing up, and the father crouched down to see what she was seeing.

Henrik turned away.

The phone buzzed again, vibrating against the desk’s polished surface.

He glanced at the screen. Magnus Arnesen. They’d known each other since they were seven years old, which meant Magnus was one of the few people Henrik couldn’t ignore completely. One of perhaps three people who’d earned that privilege through sheer endurance and loyalty.

“Magnus,” he answered, his voice rougher than he’d intended.

“Henrik. God, you picked up. I thought I’d get voicemail.”

“What can I do for you?” Henrik kept his tone businesslike, a habit from forty years of managing customer expectations and his current default when dealing with anyone other than his daughters.

“I need to ask you something.” Magnus’s voice carried that careful quality Henrik had learned to recognize over decades of friendship. It was the sound of someone working up to something difficult. “I’m going in for surgery. Hip replacement. It’s scheduled for Friday.”

Henrik felt cold trepidation creep into his chest. “Shit, Magnus. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Well, I will be fine. Six weeks recovery, they say. Maybe eight if I’m difficult about physical therapy. Which, let’s be honest, I will be.” Magnus attempted a laugh that didn’t quite land. “But that’s the thing. I need someone to look after Axel.”

Henrik closed his eyes. Of course. Axel. The Norfolk terrier Magnus had adopted three years ago after his divorce. Small dog with the personality of a creature three times his size and the temperament of a particularly judgmental literary critic. Henrik had met him exactly twice and both times the dog had regarded him with open disdain before dismissing him entirely.

“Six weeks is a long time,” Henrik said carefully.

“I know. I know it’s a lot to ask. But Kristine is in Bergen with the grandkids, and I don’t have anyone else I’d trust with him. He’s particular about people.”

That was diplomatic. “Particular” meant the dog had opinions about everything and no qualms about expressing them through strategic sulking and pointed refusals to cooperate.

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