Chapter 1: Shadows of Autumn
The crisp autumn wind cut through the streets of Stockholm, sending a cascade of orange and golden leaves skittering across the cobblestone paths. The sky was a pale, melancholy gray, as though it shared the heaviness she felt every morning when she awoke. Elina Andersson pulled her threadbare scarf tighter around her neck and hunched her shoulders, a small gesture against the chill that seemed to seep not just through her clothes, but into her bones. Her breath misted in the air, each exhale visible like a fleeting ghost, reminding her that she existed in a world that seemed to forget her entirely.
Home, if it could be called that, was a place of quiet judgment and constant comparison. The Andersson household thrived on the worship of perfection, and perfection wore the face of Linn Andersson, her younger sister by a mere year, who somehow glided through life with a golden aura, untouched by the burdens that grounded Elina. Every glance from their parents seemed to measure her against Linn, and invariably, she failed. "Why can't you be more like your sister?" her mother's voice had become a permanent echo in her mind. "Always so clumsy, so careless…"
Her father rarely spoke, but when he did, it was with a cold, measured disappointment that stung sharper than any scolding. The truth was simple: Elina's existence felt like a mistake. School had been no reprieve. Her parents could not afford the fees for a proper education, and after her withdrawal, she was left to fend for herself. Two jobs consumed her waking hours, leaving her little time to eat properly, much less dream. Her hands were calloused, her back perpetually sore, yet she carried herself as quietly as possible, a ghost in her own life.
Despite the bleakness, there was a strange rhythm to her days. The first job in the small café on the corner of her street demanded long hours and awkward smiles to customers she could barely muster warmth for. The second, a delivery job, had her cycling through rain and wind, balancing parcels that were heavier than her patience. She learned to savor the rare moments of solitude, often walking through the park near her apartment, the leaves crunching beneath her boots, the sun dipping low, painting the world in shades of fire and gold. Here, she allowed herself the fleeting illusion of freedom.
It was during these solitary walks that she first stumbled upon the shadows that would become her solace and her thrill—the Northern Ash gang. They were far from criminals in the traditional sense, at least in her eyes. They were rebellious teens, daring to laugh in the face of rules and conventions, testing limits and boundaries. They skated recklessly along empty streets, painted cryptic symbols on abandoned walls, and whispered secrets in dark alleyways. To the outside world, they might appear reckless, even wrong, but to Elina, it was liberation.
Her introduction to the gang had been gradual. Malik noticed her one afternoon at the park, her gaze lingering on a group of older teens performing minor acts of mischief. "You watch too much, little shadow," he had said with a smirk. Before she could respond, Sanna had laughed, pulling her into the circle. It was terrifying and exhilarating. She learned quickly how to move unnoticed, how to skate through Stockholm streets without being caught. She liked the sharp thrill, the sense of power it gave her, something to counterbalance the helplessness of her home life.
One crisp evening, Sanna handed her a small, carefully wrapped package. Inside lay a guitar, its polished surface gleaming under the fading streetlights.
"For you," Sanna said with a sly smile. "Because if you're going to wander through life like a shadow, you might as well make music while you're at it."
Elina's fingers trembled as she lifted the instrument. She had never owned anything like it before—nothing that belonged to her alone, nothing that seemed to matter purely because of passion rather than duty or survival. She strummed the first tentative chord and felt a warmth bloom in her chest, a strange, unfamiliar joy. The notes wavered and stumbled at first, but with each attempt, she grew steadier. Music became her private escape, a language without judgment, without expectation.
Returning home with the guitar concealed beneath her coat, she anticipated the inevitable disapproval. Her mother's sharp eyes found it within hours.
"What is this?" Karin Andersson demanded, her voice slicing through the dim kitchen light. "You should be focusing on your chores, not wasting time with… toys!"
Elina's father remained silent, though his disapproval weighed heavier than any words. She had been dismissed and ignored for so long, yet this small act of rebellion—learning the guitar, creating her own songs in secret—felt like claiming a fragment of her existence that belonged solely to her. She practiced late into the night, the soft strumming of strings accompanying the whisper of autumn winds through her open window. Each note was a rebellion against the life that sought to erase her, a tiny assertion that she was more than a shadow of Linn Andersson.
The crisp autumn evenings became her sanctuary, a time when the world felt a little less heavy and her spirit a little lighter. With her guitar slung over her shoulder, Elina began performing in small corners of the city, under the glow of street lamps that flickered like stars caught in a cityscape. At first, her fingers fumbled over the strings, the notes wavering like the uncertain rhythm of her life. But as she played, something shifted. The music carried her, lifting her above the weight of her worries, her exhaustion, her loneliness.
Passersby stopped, first out of curiosity, then out of genuine admiration. Some dropped coins into the small case at her feet, kind smiles accompanying their generosity. A woman with soft eyes whispered, "Your music… it's beautiful. Truly." A man nodded, his voice thick with sincerity: "You've got a gift, young lady. Keep playing."
And for the first time in her sixteen years, Elina felt… happiness. Pure, unfiltered, a warmth that had nothing to do with being praised, nothing to do with her family, and everything to do with herself. She glanced into the reflection of a nearby window and caught sight of her blonde hair, shining in the golden lamplight, catching the wind as if it were celebrating alongside her. She almost laughed at the absurd joy of it—her hair, her music, her freedom, all colliding in a fleeting, perfect moment.
Even as the leaves fell and the cold set in, even as her parents scolded and demanded, even as Linn continued to glide effortlessly through the life she had been denied, Elina found a rhythm in rebellion, a melody in shadows, and the faintest glimmer of hope she had not known she could feel. The streets had become her stage, and the guitar, her voice. Autumn deepened, and with it, her understanding that life was not meant to be endured quietly—but seized, however briefly, in moments of reckless joy.
As the sun dipped behind the horizon, painting the world in shades of fire and gold, Elina made her way back from the park. The wind carried the scent of fallen leaves and distant rain. Her fingers absently brushed the guitar case against her side as she walked, thinking of the melodies she would write that night, the notes that would pour from her soul. She felt alive in a way she hadn't felt in years, a fragile but precious spark amid the shadows of her world.
And it was in that exact moment, with the city quiet and the streets bathed in autumn light, that her life—so carefully balanced between duty, rebellion, and secret joy—was about to shift in ways she could never have imagined.