You stand on the doorstep with an overnight bag slung over your shoulder, a smile still lingering from your three-hour train journey. Emma had been so insistent about tonight — I can't wait, Y/n, it's been ages!

You texted her when you left the station. On my way!

No reply.

You texted her when you reached the curb outside her house. Here! Where are you?

The front door is ajar. Just barely. As if someone forgot to shut it properly.

Through the gap, you can hear music. A familiar voice — one of her brother's. Acoustic guitar, soft strumming. A mumble of lyrics in Norwegian.

You push the door open.