It's not raining this morning. The sun is shining and I can't see a single cloud on the sky, it's almost as hot as a mid-summer day even though it's late April.

Emma is in the driver's seat and is driving us to one of the places we used to visit when we were little. It was one of the promises I made with her when I convinced her to come here. She wanted to visit the places dad often took us when we were young.

I lean my head against the car window and look out at the fields at the side of the road. I live outside of central Gothenburg and have not realized how much I miss this kind of view. It's also been some time since I was in a car. I don't have a license and most of the time I take the tramcar if I need to be somewhere.

For the first time in a long time Emma is in a good mood. She's even smiling. It's a timid one, like she's afraid that if she smiles too much it will be taken away from her. But this smile is a real one, small wrinkles are by the edges of her eyes.

She drives onto the same gravel road dad used drive on. It's been almost ten years since I saw this road, but I recognize it. The last few years with dad we stopped going to the forest together, we were too old to play around trees.

It looks the same, if a little smaller. When I was little, I always saw this forest as a big magical world, mostly thanks to my dad's rich imagination. He used to say he was a wizard from a forgotten, beautiful world of darkness. At night portals opened and giants and trolls stepped out to wreak havoc on us humans. He fought against them at night, and since they couldn't stand sunlight, they became trees and stones once daylight touched their skin. Dad used to lead us through the forest and tell us about his adventure fighting the trolls and giants. He had even carved some faces into some of the trees.

"It looks smaller than I remember," I mumble towards the car window.

"It's looks the same to me."

She's talking in her normal tone, the one that's a little darker. It's been a while since I heard it. It sounds more confident, happier. I don't have to look at her to know that she's smiling.

Emma knows exactly where we're headed, what roads she needs to drive onto until we reach the same parking lot that dad always stopped at. She also knows what paths to take throughout the forest on foot once we leave the car. I don't remember the way, even though I recognize it more the further in we get. Neither I nor Emma have been here for years, but for Emma it's like she never left the forest, she knows every little detail.

"Over there," she says and steps over a log by the edge of the overgrown grass.

I follow reluctantly and the small fir-trees and the top of the overgrown grass touches my arms. We continue forward to a gnarled and old tree. There is something charming and familiar with it, but it's when I see the old face on the other side that I recognize it.

"Oh, the troll king," I say.

I turn towards the round stone next to it. Moss is growing upon it, it looks like a green mantle over a large troll.

"And its general," I chuckle.

"Yes," Emma mumbles and touches the tree's face gently. "Do you think it was dad who carved it?"

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I study the face. The nose is overly big, exactly like the typical Scandinavian trolls my dad used to carve. We had never seen him create faces in the forest, but he often carved in wood and created small animals and trolls at home. That's why it wasn't hard to figure out that he had created most – if not all – of the faces in the forest.

I shrug. "Probably."

"He did a lot for us," she says with a smile, it dies out as quickly as it came.

"It looks like you want to say something," I say carefully while I stroke my fingers over the troll's nose.

She holds her arms around her. "Do you remember that I used to see things when I was little?"

I sigh and think about what words I should say, they come out a bit harder than I had planned. "I remember you thought you saw things."

"I did see things. I know I did."

"You were a child, Emma. Most kids say they see things when they don't. Just like when we thought these stones and trees were actually trolls and giants that father fought against. And obviously they are no more than trees and stones."

"No, that's not what I mean." She hesitates. "I still see things."

I pull my eyebrows together. "You... see things?"

Emma isn't someone who would joke or come up with something like this, but that she sees things? It makes me worry that her health is worse than I first thought, at least if she's hallucinating. She had seen things when she was little, but that's what kids do. They have a rich imagination and believe pretty much anything. Emma said that an old man visited her room as a child, mom told me when I was older that Emma said that the man had hung himself in the closet. But children say weird and creepy things all the time. This... This I just cannot believe in.

"Emma," I sigh, "grief can make you–"

"It has nothing to do with grief," she interrupts.

She doesn't avoid my gaze when I look for something in her eyes that says that she's not serious. It's the first time in a long time that I see her so confident in something.

"So what? You say that you see things... Do you mean ghosts?"

I feel stupid asking these questions. I don't believe in such things, can't even think of a world where it would make sense.

"I was there when dad died."

She's gone paler than before, her posture stiff.

"You thought you saw dad's ghost?" I ask and fold my arms.

She shakes her head. "I don't think it was dad."

"So what did you see?"

She hesitates. "I think it was death."

I swallow a laugh. "Death?"

"I know it sounds crazy... and stupid. I don't know what it could have been if not that. I saw it just before dad passed. There was this presence, and then I saw something. I can't explain what it was, but dad saw it too."

I don't know what to say. I can't believe that death is something that you can literally see like some sort of creature. Dad was dying. It doesn't surprise me that he saw something, but that doesn't mean that what he saw was real., but that doesn't mean that what he saw was real. Emma was dealing with loss, maybe she also needed to believe she saw something.

I take a deep breath. "Emma, I don't want to minimize what you saw or experienced, but dad was dying. I don't doubt that he saw something but that doesn't mean..."

"That what I saw was real?"

I nod.

"You can believe whatever you want, but I know what I saw."

I sigh. "Okay, why are you telling me this then?"

She hesitates again. "When grandma died, I called on her. I asked for a sign. I didn't see anything, and I didn't hear anything, but I felt her presence. I've tried the same with dad, many times. I never feel his presence. I can't feel, hear, or see anything when I ask him to show that he is here. If dad could show me a sign he would do so, I know that he would, so why isn't he?"

The desperation in her voice makes me feel ill. My mouth feels dry, but I force forward these words that I know I shouldn't say. "Because he's dead, Emma."

When you're dead you don't come back. No matter how much we want to see him, he is lost, and he doesn't exist anymore. It's more painful to cling so tightly onto him, to believe that he still exists one way or another.

"Death doesn't have to be an ending," she says. "A soul doesn't just stop existing."

I want to tell her that there is no such thing as a soul, that after death there is nothing. Death is the ultimate ending.

I can't say it. The desperate brown eyes that are pleading and begging that something is still existing of our dad makes me keep my thoughts to myself.