Alva Vesterlund

The last tram had already left, and my phone was at two percent. Great.

I pulled my coat tighter and started walking. The November air smelled like wet asphalt, the kind of cold that slips under your skin and stays there. The streets weren’t empty, but they felt that way. A couple stumbled out of a bar, laughing too loudly. A cyclist sped past, music blasting from a speaker. I kept my head down and walked faster.

I’m eighteen, born and raised in Stockholm. I know this city. I know which streets to avoid, which shortcuts are safe. But that night, I miscalculated.

I noticed him when I turned onto my street. A man, maybe forty, walking a few meters behind me. Nothing strange about that. But when I crossed the road, so did he. When I slowed down, so did he.

I knew what to do. I had read the articles, heard the stories. Stay where it’s lit. Call someone. But my battery was at one percent now, and my hands felt too cold to type.

Then I saw the kiosk. The lights were still on, even though they should have been closed. Without thinking, I stepped inside.

The man behind the counter looked up, surprised. I recognized him—he was always there, the same calm face that handed me gum or a late-night soda.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

I nodded, but I must not have looked convincing. He glanced out the window, then back at me. “Wait here,” he said.

He stepped outside, just for a moment. I didn’t hear what he said, but when he came back, the man was gone.

“You need a taxi?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I live just down the street.”

“Okay,” he said. “Then wait a few minutes.”

I bought a chocolate bar I didn’t want. We didn’t talk. After a while, I left. The street was quiet now.

At home, I sat on my bed, the unopened chocolate in my hand. It wasn’t a big thing, what he did. But it was enough.