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She looks in the mirror and sees a version of herself, a barely recognizable reflection of a wife scarred and beaten down by grief. Her cheeks are gaunt, her blonde hair dull and tangled and stringy. Her lips, once pink and plump with life, are chapped and mangled; bits of dried blood marking where she has torn at the skin with her teeth.
Her eyes close, too tired with life to process what she's seeing; to come to terms with who she has become. She's no longer a wife; hasn't been for weeks. She doesn't know what to do with the ripping away of that label; something that never really suited her, yet was a part of her for so long. How does one wake up in the morning a wife and go to bed a widow?
It happened in the blink of an eye and an exhalation of a breath. He was here and then he wasn't. And now she's alone.
She still reaches for him at night; a remnant of the past that won't let go. He's a ghost; a dip in the mattress that only she can feel as her body shifts to find comfort where he used to be. Her nerves still remember the feel of him against her; the rise and fall of his chest; the beating of his heart. Even as the image of him flickers in her mind, his voice an already distant echo, she can still feel him next to her like a phantom limb.
Their last words were ones of anger and she has no regret. People will judge her for that, so she will express her wish that it could have been otherwise; that she could go back in time and tell him "I love you" one last time. But life is messy and they weren't happy and his death doesn't erase what had been their reality. He wasn't good to her or for her; and if things were reversed and she was the one taken from this world, he would say the same of her.
She looks in the mirror and sees a version of herself, a blurry reflection of a mother trying and failing to parent through grief. Her hair is matted and her eyes dark and sunken. People think she's neglecting her children, but she's neglecting herself. She juggles the need to keep a roof over their head and to put food on the table with their need to grieve their father. She's only one person and she's never felt so alone.
Each night, she spends hours awake, staring at the ceiling from the mattress on the floor, waiting for them to need her. Emil comes to her and she lifts the covers, cradling him against her as he cries into the soft fur of his stuffed puppy. He doesn't know how to articulate his grief; he doesn't understand why his father had to leave him. She doesn't either. Who does? And so she simply holds him, lets him cry, and listens as he tells her his wish—that she were the one to die.
Henna doesn't come to her. She hears her daughter crying from the other room and goes to her; wanting to hold her as much as she wants to be held. But Henna doesn't allow it, and though she doesn't express her wish with words, it is undoubtedly the same as her brother's.
She doesn't know how to help them; she's never lost a husband before. Maybe they would be better off without her.
She looks in the mirror and sees a version of herself, a reflection of a widow who is conflicted and confused. Her hair falls in soft waves against her collarbones, a bit messy from the pillow; and something new reflects in her eyes; a light that has been missing and a desire that surprises her.
Also in the mirror, behind her through the open door, is her partner—the one she didn't want. He is too young, too inexperienced, too rigid in his approach. He gets in her way; and yet, as the days pass, she finds herself needing this distraction from her grief. As an obstacle, he reminds her of her purpose; he challenges her to be a better detective, to look behind doors she would otherwise pass by.
He is sprawled on his back, the bottom of his t-shirt pulled up by the arms stretched above his head. She sees his exposed belly rising and falling with each breath in deep sleep and wonders what it would be like to rest her hand on it; to run her fingertips through the hairs that disappear beneath the waist of his jeans.
She doesn't know where this is coming from; these thoughts that first made their way into her consciousness the night he put her son to bed. Maybe this is part of grief—seeing in someone else what you are missing; grasping onto any sense of normalcy or reminder of what used to be.
It's chilly in the room, so she turns down the covers on her side of the bed and squeezes into the small space that remains. She nestles against him, fighting the weight of his body to get just one more inch of mattress, and tucks her hands beneath the pillow. She wants to hold him like she used to hold Jussi; in the beginning, when everything was new.
She looks in the mirror and sees a version of herself, a reflection of a daughter who is drowning in grief. Her eyes are red and unfocused; her hair is a disaster. The whisky dribbles from one side of her mouth and burns her throat as she swallows.
Her mother died and she doesn't know what she is supposed to feel. They grew apart, the chasm between them too wide to cross, and now she's gone.
Her mother was an alcoholic. Each day, she drank until she was numb; a shell of a woman void of emotions. She loved her daughter, but wasn't loving, and her daughter grew to hate her presence in her life.
That daughter just lost her husband; his entire existence forgotten in her mother's demented mind. How is she supposed to swim through this endless sea of death? How does she reconcile the anger and resentment she has toward both of them with the deep pain she feels in their absence?
She holds her gun in her hand; turning it this way and that as she studies it and considers its power. Its just a hunk of metal, but molded and engineered to deliver another piece of metal into soft tissue, obliterating all memories; all pain. Walking to the papers and pictures scattered across the floor, she stops and presses the muzzle to her temple—it would be so easy—and tosses it on the couch.
Her feet slip on a file, reminding her of her purpose; and she squats, rolling her lips between her fingers as she searches for the answer. Amidst her grief, she has another death to attend.
The doorbell rings and he invades her space; tells her to turn down the music like he's her dad. He's standing there, all prim and proper, while she's shit faced and giggling like an idiot. She gives him a shot to loosen him up and tips the bottle back, wiping the overflow from her chin.
And now he's standing there, with his ice blue eyes, his chiseled jaw, and lips plumped and parted. And she finds the answer to her grief; the lifeline to pull her from the riptide. Before she can talk herself out of it, her hand is on his zipper and her eyes dare him to stop her. And he can; he can stop this—step back or push her away—but he doesn't.
She kisses him; feels his lips give way to hers; tastes the smoky notes of the whisky on his tongue. She wants to consume him and be consumed by him; to get lost in his embrace, to bring him inside of her, to feel whole again.
But it's there; a riptide of grief pulling her out even as she fights against it. The more she fights it, the harder it pulls; and before she knows it, she's washed out to sea.
In the distance, she sees him; standing on shore with his hands in his pockets, waiting for a wave to wash her in.