The Lost Village by Sten, Camilla (reading women TXT) 📕

something to say, but everyone has turned their back on her. No one is looking at her; no one even seems to notice she’s there. Not even the pastor.

And no, not even Aina, the back of whose glistening, dark-haired head is a stronger, more painful statement than any shove could ever be.

 NOW

When I step out of the church, I pull my mask down to feel the April sun on my face. It’s strong today, could almost be called blazing, and the warmth it radiates makes the village smell of spring.

“OK,” says Max. “Was it the parsonage next?”

“Yeah,” I say. “If that nineteenth-century map is right, then it should be around here somewhere.” I pause.

“You can take off your respirator masks out here if you want,” I say. Robert shrugs, but Max pulls his down and smiles. It has left a red mark around his mouth, which makes me wonder if mine has done the same.

This part of the village—the area that was built up between the church and the main square—is older than the identical row houses on the other side. The houses here all vary in size and shape, and they’re also lower, more stout. Hefty clapboard façades painted a faded sunny yellow or Falu red, with peeling white trims. They have resisted the ravages of time better than the row houses, despite being many times as old.

We managed to do some filming inside the church and get a lot of photos, catching the details we missed the first time around. All in all, it took less time than I had expected. The stress has started to ease a little, even if it’s still a nagging twinge at the back of my mind. No matter how efficient we are today, we’ve still lost twenty percent of our scheduled time, which means we need to prioritize. I’m guessing the contextual shots of the ironworks will have to go. The sad truth is that a deep dive into the collapse of a small mining village won’t quite have the same appeal as the more sensational aspects of the story. The murder. The baby. The pastor.

At the end of the day, we aren’t here to make a film: we’re here to show why we deserve the money and support we need to make a film. To pique the internet masses’ curiosity enough to make them want to see the final product. It’s all about generating interest—about questions, not answers.

After today we only have two days left, which feels insane. How has it gone so fast? At the same time, I’m—cautiously—starting to hope this is a sign we might actually do this.

Two more days. Two days to keep Tone as pain-free as possible; two days to keep an eye on Emmy. Two days to get material that’ll hopefully give us enough traction to find someone to take Emmy’s place on the project. More than one, if need be.

I can last two days. We can last two days.

When I see the neat little house it doesn’t look very different from the surrounding cottages, but I can still feel the pulse in my fingertips. I double-check the printout of the old map. Every site has been marked with an ornate-to-the-point-of-illegible hand, and the proportions seem slightly distorted—the river looks longer than it is, and the square lies further east—but the neat little rectangle labeled the CLERGY HOUSE seems to be in exactly the right place to be the building before me.

“I think this is it,” I say and stop.

It’s a yellow building with a small porch. The door is shut, and the few wooden steps leading up to it look completely rotted through.

“I’ll go, Alice,” Max says, then walks around me and puts his foot on the bottom step.

“No, wait—” is all I can get out before he crashes through it with a cry of shock.

I put my hand on his shoulder.

“Are you OK?” I ask.

“Be careful,” Robert adds, as Max starts to extract his leg from the hole in the step.

“You can’t put your weight in the middle,” I tell Max, my voice sharp with worry. “That’s where they’re weakest.”

“So I see,” says Max, attempting a laugh as he pulls up his pant leg to check his thin, white calf. It doesn’t look hurt.

“Are you OK? Don’t scare me like that,” I say.

I walk past him and test out the step above the one that has just given way, then cautiously climb, keeping next to the bannister. The stairs creak, but hold.

I don’t wait for the others before reaching for the door handle. It’s in an ornate, forged bronze style, old-fashioned but beautiful. The house itself may not be big, but it’s clear that someone influential once lived here.

I pull my respirator mask back on. It feels hot and damp on my face. I push the handle. The door is heavy, but it opens.

Behind me I hear the click of Robert’s camera as I step into the hall. The ceiling is surprisingly high, with one light—a small, dusty chandelier—hanging from it.

Once we’re inside the front door, as if by silent agreement Robert turns into the little kitchen, while Max and I go through the door opposite. A bedroom, timeworn and a little cold. There’s nothing in there but a bed with a starched, yellowed sheet and a large wardrobe. There aren’t even any curtains over the slanting window frames. When I kneel down and look under the bed, I see two empty, brown glass bottles.

“Must have been Einar’s,” I say, taking a picture.

“Einar?” asks Max, as I stand up and brush off my knees.

“The pastor before Mattias,” I reply. “I haven’t found any trace of him. He must have disappeared along with the rest.”

We walk back into the hall, where Robert meets us.

“Anything interesting?” I ask him.

He shakes his head.

“Pretty cold,” he says. “The bedroom?”

“Empty,” I say. “Is this something we should be spending time on? In terms of filming?”

Robert rubs his chin so that the stubble scratches against his fingers, then shakes his