Kristina Claesson - Fiction

The girl was small for nine, with hair the colour of dry straw and eyes that seemed to take in everything while giving nothing back. Her name was Elin, and on the first Sunday of June, she simply did not get dressed for church. Her mother, Birgitta, stood in the doorway of the bedroom, the starched collar of her good dress cutting into her neck. The house smelled of coffee and the ironed linen that had been laid out since Friday. "Elin. The car leaves in twenty minutes."