Something’s gone horribly wrong here.
You can’t put your finger on it, at least not at first. The world looks just as it should do (or at least how I imagine it should, having never experienced Sweden in the lurid fluorescent glow of the 1980s). Rows of homes stand empty, yes, and meals wait expectantly on kitchen tables as the TV blasts static from the cosy lounge, but the lights are still on, answerphones still flash with new messages, and while there’s nobody home, at least not for now, whoever put that book down thought they would be right back.
No-one puts down an open book if they don’t think they’ll be right back.
