The rain pours down. Every raindrop that hits Emma's umbrella makes a loud and sharp sound. It's hard to focus, like it always is every time we visit the grave. Every time I'm here I have nothing to say. It feels like I'm talking to a stone and the few words I have ends up hollow and detached. I don't believe in heaven, in some paradise after death. When you're dead you're dead. You don't exist anymore – dad doesn't exist anymore.

Yet here I sit crouched down in front of the grave, my hand is caressing the cold and wet stone and I'm trying to find something else than the empty, hollow words I have to say.

My hair is wet, it sticks uncomfortably to my cheek and the rain forces itself underneath my thin spring jacket.

Emma takes a step closer and moves the umbrella so it protects me from the rain. It's too late, it's already gotten through my spring jacket and camisole, and is sticking to my back.

"Thank you," I mumble and I try to sound sad or troubled.

It's not like I'm not feeling any sorrow over my father's passing, I do. But I can't connect this stone with him. I can feel sorrow from photographs and videos, this makes me feel guilty that I don't feel anything. I'm not like Emma who could stay here for hours if she could.

I caress the cold stone one last time before I get up, I have an uncomfortable feeling, because I haven't said anything, just like how it always is. Not that I see a point with it when I believe it won't reach him.

The psychologist I had the first year after my dad's death told me that I didn't need to believe that my words reached him, but that it could be a beautiful thought. That I needed to say it, whether it reached my dad or not. I was never able to fully do it, it felt unnatural.

I know my dad would laugh if he saw me now. That I'm trying to feel something, struggling to cry so that I can seem like the others. He wouldn't care, he would have told me that I have the right to handle his death in my own way. "There is no right way to grieve," he'd told me a few months before his death. He knew I would question myself, even four years later.

"Do you want to say something?" I ask Emma.

"I already have."

It looks like she's somewhere else, not in the middle of a Swedish graveyard a rainy day. Her eyes are empty, no smile but she doesn't seem sad either.

Emma had always been the one who took dad's death the worst. I could keep on living, I finished high school and continued to work afterwards. I could make friends and laugh.

Emma couldn't. She had never been the most social of us, if anything she was anti-social already as a child. She kept to herself and would rather read a book or look at a movie instead of hanging out with friends. When dad died from cancer, she couldn't handle it. It's been years since he died, and she still won't leave her apartment in Gävle unless she has to. I don't think she has visited his grave for years even though she clearly wants to.

"We shouldn't let mom and Anders wait for us," I say and link my arm with hers.

All that she gives as an answer is a short, absent nod. I lead her out of the graveyard and into the parking lot where mom and Anders are waiting.

***

We're staying in the same room – the guestroom in mom's and Anders' new house. There are two single beds, both of them have the same white bedding with flower motives. They are small, yellow flowers, so small that you can't see what they are when you come into the room. Furthest in there is a big wardrobe next to a window and on the other side there is a large floor mirror. Emma is standing in front of it in her pajamas. She's matching the bedding, just like them, the pajama has floral patterns. They are slightly larger and have different colors. It doesn't fit. The pajamas look cute and it radiates something beautiful and positive. Emma's facial expressions is something completely different. The eyes are red, and the face is paler than it was a year ago, she looks sick. The curly hair is put in a low ponytail, a few strands of hair is hanging down from the forehead. It's terrifying to see those empty brown eyes staring into the mirror. The mouth is slightly open, and the round eyes look narrower, the eyebrows are relaxed – tired.

I sit on one of the beds – the one closest to the door – with my legs crossed.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

I have to choose my words carefully, I don't want her to feel worse.

"Looking."

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"I can see that... I meant..."

I stop when she stares at me with a painful expression over her entire face.

"I look like dad."

She's right. She looks like dad; she has always looked like him. When she was younger she often heard how alike they were and she had always been proud over it, but now it has to feel more like a curse.

This conversation is the last one I'd like to have. I can't lie, she wouldn see right through me. I straighten myself and choses my next words carefully.

"Yes, you're very alike."

"You look more like mom," she says and turns back to the mirror like she was some sort of puppet.

"I have dad's green eyes," I try.

"And yet I look more like dad," she adds flatly. "Same face, same hair. The only thing I have from mom is her eyes, everything else is dad. It's like I see him. In the mirror."

"Do you do this often?"

This can't be healthy.

"No, not really. I don't like mirrors."

"Maybe you shouldn't do it at all. Maybe we can play cards or something? Like we did when we were kids. Mom said she had a card deck in the kitchen."

She sits down in the bed and pulls the cover up. "I rather sleep."

"Are you sure?" I ask.

She lays down. "Yes, I want to sleep. It's been a long day."

I put my phone on the bedside table and lay down in the bed. Sometimes I wonder what she's thinking or planning. I'm not sure I want to know. There are times when I think it's important to know, but I don't think I would be able to handle it. I've seen it before. Not with her, but with others.

And it never ends well.

I pull the cover over me and turn off the lamp on the bedside table. I don't know how to handle this. I know I need to find a solution or something – anything – before it gets worse.

I bite the inside of my lower lip when I stare into the darkness.

"Emma," I say.

I can hear something moving.

"Yes?"

"Promise to tell me if you need help."

I'm trying to see the shape of her in the darkness.

"Emma...?"

"I don't need any help."

My mouth feels dry. "I know, and if you need help you know that I'm here."

"I know, you always are."

There's no appreciation in her voice. I can't answer, so I try to sleep. Usually, I can turn off the worrying. This time it's not possible. It grows and grows, eventually it will spill over.

I lay in my bed for what feels like an eternity, I don't know how long. An hour or two, maybe three. I've gotten used to the darkness; I can see the shape of the furniture. I'm thinking, looking for a solution, what I can do for her, but I can't figure something out. A part of me thinks it's going to solve itself. It's nothing more than a hopeless wish. Emma would never accept help, she would rather drown in her own sorrow and despair.

My mouth it uncomfortably dry, I force myself to sit up. Emma is barely moving, she doesn't look as tense as she has looked throughout the day. If I focus I can hear her breathing deeply and slowly. She's sleeping.

I carefully get up from my bed and sneak as quietly as I can towards the door. I don't want to wake her. The only time she looks peaceful is when she's sleeping, that's when I see a part of her I haven't seen in a long time. It's a depressing thought, one that makes it feel like I have a lump in my throat. I force the thought away and I walk out into the small hallway. After I carefully close the door, I continue down to quench my thirst.

The kitchen is small and is barely big enough to fit a round table with four chairs, since the kitchen counters, the oven and the refrigerator takes most of the space of the kitchen. I take a glass from the dish rack and fill it with tap water. My mouth and throat are unpleasantly dry, and my thoughts are wild and confusing. I can't stick to one of them, instead I jump back and forth on ideas I have. No matter how many thoughts I have, I never come up with anything that can help. Maybe I'm pondering too much, but I can't stop.

I take a sip from the cold water. It tastes better than Gothenburg's tap water that I've gotten used to.

Light fills the room and I squint at mom that stands in the door opening. Her eyes are thin and tense from the sudden light. The straight hair is slightly tangled and unkept. She has a robe tightly tied around her waist.

"Jonna?" she mumbles.

I raise the glass with water. "I was thirsty."

"Ah, well... I thought I heard something. Make sure you don't wake Emma, it looked like she needed to sleep," she says with a small smile. "Sleep tight, Jonna."

I put down the glass on the kitchen counter. "Mom, wait... Emma... I don't know what to do."

The words come quickly out of me, they are desperate and pleading. I feel like a little girl when I hear how fragile my voice sounds.

"I know," she whispers.

I follow her with my gaze until she sits down at one of the chairs. She places her clasped hands on the table.

For a while I wondered if she saw how bad it was with Emma, if she thought it was easier to pretend she didn't notice it. Now when she's sitting in the kitchen and staring into the wall I know that she is aware.

"I know," she repeats.

I lean towards the kitchen counter.

"I've known it for a while now. I've asked her to talk with a psychologist, therapist, or anything. But she refuses. You know how she is. She's always saying that she doesn't need to talk to anyone, that she's alright... that she doesn't need any help."

"She's not."

Mom's brown eyes are wet, but I don't see any tears yet. "I know. I've even talked to the hospital."

"What did they say?"

She shakes her head. "You know how they are. As long as she hasn't done anything they don't want to take her in. But if she does something..." She swallows and clenches her jaw. "Then it might be too late."

I can't muster up the courage to say something. The only sound that fills the room is from the fridge and freezer.

"I'm sorry... You don't need to hear that from your own mother. I shouldn't take out my worries out on you."

"You're not taking anything out on me," I remind her. "I was the one who brought it up."

I have to stop myself, so I don't also say at least not this time. Neither of us needs that right now.

"And all it caused was that you worried even more about this." She shakes her head again. "No, the most important thing is that we are there for Emma, there is no point in thinking of the absolute worst."

Mom gets up from the chair and crosses her arms, I see the discomfort in her face, and the shame that she has shown me this side of her. I want to ask her to not feel guilty or shameful over what we talked about. It makes me feel less alone. But I can't find the right words.

"Drink your water and then go to bed. It's going to be a long day tomorrow," she says, her voice doesn't quite hold.