Morning air is always different from that at night. Regardless of whether the temperature is just as low or the dark just as impenetrable, the morning carries with it a renewed freshness, a sense of hope. The air is purer, lighter. That’s what it feels like as I finally step out of the museum once the morning staff arrive. For a moment I stand in front of the building, draw the thin, chilled air into my lungs and look around.

Nobody appears to be waiting for me. Whoever was following me last night is either very well hidden or has had enough either of me or of traipsing around after me. Hopefully both. I set off. I feel surprisingly awake, especially given I only slept three and a half hours on the museum sofa between two and six a.m.

Hurmevaara is quietly waiting for a new day to dawn. The streets stand empty, each leading its respective way; the lights in the shop windows look almost bored. I notice my thoughts spinning between my two selves.

My wife loves me. Nobody tried to steal the meteorite.

On the other hand…

My wife is pregnant by the rally driver. The meteorite will be in the museum one more night.

It feels as though every piece of good news in my life also contains some bad news: for every silver lining there’s also a cloud. But there are moments in which I am able to push myself and my own needs to one side. And as my horizons widen and I examine things from the right angle, I even feel something approaching a sense of gratitude. Things might not be ideal right now, but they’re as good as they can be. From experience, I know that everything could be so much worse.

I seem to perk up the closer I get to home. I see the lit-up windows, villagers waking to a new day: one sweeping snow from the front steps, another peering at the thermometer through the window, a third climbing on the back of a snowmobile.

Things just might turn out for the good, I think; it’s entirely possible.

In any case, the grand scheme of things remains a mystery to us. The only thing that’s clear is that such a scheme, a plan, really does exist. Either it is based on chance and is shaped by it, a grand cosmic game of roulette, or there is a predefined beginning and an end, and everything in between is simply movement towards that end, and in that movement everything has its own place and meaning. Either by chance or by design, what will be will be.

I realise the extent of my fatigue. It conjures up thoughts like this. Maybe it doesn’t matter, I think, and take a deep breath, what’s important is that Krista and I have been given another chance.

I brush the snow from the front steps before going inside. It’s a cosmetic procedure more than anything, but one that feels important. A fresh start. I pull off my outdoor clothes in the porch, walk through the inner door into the hallway, and stop still.

So many things catch my attention at once.

The lights in the kitchen are still on, and in Krista’s office too – that small, cosy space filled with books. The bathroom door is open, the lights are on and the tap is running. I listen for a moment for any other sounds. All I can hear is the gentle trickling of water. I walk into the bathroom.

Krista’s toothbrush is at the bottom of the sink. The water is rinsing the brush, on which there’s only a small fleck of bright-blue toothpaste. Seeing the toothbrush is like a chilled knife cutting through my stomach, allowing an icy lump to form there. I begin to feel my pulse, to hear the dull thump of my heartbeat in my ear.

‘Krista,’ I call out. ‘I’m home.’

I say it again, this time slightly louder.

I don’t like what it sounds like.

A fresh bout of nausea, perhaps, and there’s something very frightening in quite how consoling that thought now seems. I leap up the stairs to our bedroom. The bed is still neatly made; nobody has slept there. I look into the guest room, but it too is untouched. I return to the bathroom downstairs, turn off the tap and back out of the room.

I cross the living room and head towards the door to Krista’s office. Spinning across the computer screen is a spiral pulling colours into its black depths one at a time: blue, green, red, blue, green…

Next to the computer is the book she is translating, propped up on a stand. Beside the keyboard is her teacup, still half full of tea.

I know Krista; I know her evening routines. She has supper, brushes her teeth, washes her face, then returns to switch off the computer and the lights. And there’s a reason for this specific order of events. Krista often says that a translation problem that’s been bugging her will sort itself out while she’s having supper or brushing her teeth, just before bed. That’s why she leaves switching off the computer till last.

Here everything has been left unfinished.

I switch off the lights in the office and retrace my steps to the kitchen, listening all the while. The lamp above the dining table is reflected in both the surface of the table and the window. Even from a distance I can see there’s something on the table. A sheet of A4, text on it. Apart from that the table is clear, which only underlines the placement of the paper right in the middle, making the text written in block lettering seem all the more threatening. I reach the edge of the table, the cold sensation in my stomach spreads to the rest of my body and my hands begin to tremble.