Chapter 1: City of Orange Roofs
That city—people called it by another name in Swedish: Mina drömmars stad. The City of Dreams. But to me, on the first day I set foot there, it resembled no dream at all. It appeared before my eyes like an old oil painting—faded by the years, yet somehow still holding onto a strange, haunting charm.
Cobblestone streets wound their way from the central square all the way down to the shore. On both sides, houses with orange-tiled roofs pressed close together, like pages of a history book. That orange wasn’t the garish orange of citrus or neon signs. It was the color of kiln-fired bricks that had weathered countless rainy seasons and sun-scorched summers, draped in a thin veil of moss and the salt spray blown in from the sea. Some houses rose three stories high, others barely two—but they all shared the same features: arched windows, white-painted wooden frames peeling with age, and on every sill, a pot of red geraniums.
The city nestled itself against the bay, like an old person sitting before the sea, telling stories. The old fishing port lay to the west, where small fishing boats bobbed at anchor, swaying to the rhythm of the tides. The smell of dried fish, damp rope, and tar mingled into a singular fragrance, one that belonged only to this place. To the east rose low hills planted with maples and birches—come autumn, golden leaves would blanket the paths, crisp and rustling underfoot.
The great square—where I stepped off the last bus—was the heart of the city. Not very large, but large enough to hold a small morning market, large enough for summer open-air concerts, large enough for the neighborhood children to run and play freely every late afternoon. At its center stood a fountain that had long stopped flowing, crowned by the statue of a man in a felt hat, a book in his hand. The water no longer ran, but children still loved to climb onto the pedestal and sit there, pretending they were captains on a vast, imaginary ocean.
Opposite the fountain rose the clock tower—the tallest structure in the city. Built of gray stone, its summit bore a round clock face with Roman numerals faded by time. Its bells still rang out every hour, waking the city at six in the morning and lulling it to sleep at nine at night. Throughout my nearly month-long search for work afterward, I would use those chimes as my landmarks—the first bell meant leaving home, the second meant returning.
But all of that—the antique beauty, the heart-wrenching peace—I had no time to admire on that late autumn afternoon. Because I stepped off the bus carrying just one bag. The same bag I had carried for eighteen years, from one orphanage to another. Inside were three changes of clothes, a notebook almost filled, a stub of a pencil, and an envelope containing the money I had saved from odd jobs around the orphanage. That money—I didn’t even dare open the envelope to count it again, afraid it would be less than I had imagined.
I remember my first glimpse of the square in that twilight. The sun was setting behind the orange roofs, dyeing the entire sky the color of honey mixed with a wisp of smoke. The streetlamps began to glow, one by one, warm and amber. From the windows, the smells of dinner drifted out—roasted meat, pumpkin soup, fresh bread. And inside me, my stomach growled a hunger I had been suppressing all through the long day on the bus.
I stood there, in the middle of the square, as hundreds of people walked past. They had places to go home to. They laughed, they talked, they waved at one another. A man carrying a basket of fish, an old woman leading her grandchild by the hand, a girl on a bicycle with a basket of flowers in front. Every one of them had a destination. And me—I had only my bag and a crumpled map in my hand, the map I had begged for at the bus station.
I thought I would find a tree, a stone bench somewhere, and sit there waiting until morning. But then I looked around and saw an old woman across the street. She was coming back from the market, a wicker basket on her arm, walking slowly. She stopped beside a maple tree, as if waiting for someone. Then she turned her eyes toward me. Her gaze, behind round, kind spectacles, and her auburn hair under the streetlamp—she looked like an old photograph that had been hand-colored. She crossed the street. Not hurriedly, not hesitantly. As if she had known I would be standing there. As if she had been waiting for me even before I was born.
“Hello,” she said. “You’re not from around here, are you?” Her voice was slightly hoarse, but warm—like a cup of tea left too long by the hearth.
I gripped the strap of my bag. A hundred times I had practiced in front of the mirror in the orphanage bathroom—how to smile, what to say, so that others wouldn’t see my weakness. But standing before her, I realized I had never practiced for the moment when someone would ask me a question with real kindness.
“No... I just arrived, ma’am.”
She looked at me. Her eyes were silent—but silent the way the sea is silent: deep and forgiving. She asked about my relatives. I told her I had none. She asked why I had come. I told her I was looking for work, because I was old enough now. I spoke those words lightly, as if I were describing the day’s weather. But inside, my chest trembled with a strange feeling—equal parts shame and pride.
She sighed, very softly. Perhaps she had seen too many drifters like me. Or perhaps she had never seen anyone like me—because she still stopped, still asked, still raised her hand to point toward the clock tower to tell me it was already half past six. “People usually have dinner at seven,” she said. As if she wanted me to imagine a steady rhythm, something to hold onto.
I told her my plan to find a room to rent. I said I only needed a place to rest my head. I dared not confess how frightened I had been as night fell in a strange city, or that I had been silently praying to something I didn’t even know how to name. I only asked if she knew anyone who rented rooms. I knew it was forward of me. But when you are desperate, you become shameless in the most innocent way.
Mrs. Ann—I did not yet know her name—smiled. Her smile did not bloom wide, her lips barely pursed, but it was enough to make me believe I didn’t need to beg for anything more. She pointed across the square.
I followed her finger. A small house with a sloping roof the color of red-orange, walls of moss-green, a white chimney releasing thin wisps of smoke. Light from a ground-floor window spilled out, yellow and soft. She said it was her home. “The attic room is still empty. It’s very small. But if you’d like, you can come and see.”
My eyes widened. “Can I really come?”
“Of course.”
I nodded. And from that moment, something inside me began to change. Not that fear vanished—but it made room for something else. A strange, quiet peace. Mrs. Ann led me across the square. Our two shadows under the streetlamps—shortening, lengthening, merging, separating—like a slow waltz. And I knew that, no matter what tomorrow would bring, I had found a place to lie down, on this very first night.
