Simon Henriksson

Simon is twenty-one. He has a cramped one-room flat on the outskirts of Stockholm, dark circles under his eyes from endless insomnia, and a habit of tugging the door handle twice before leaving. He studies, scrapes by on odd jobs, and keeps people at arm's length. It's easier to crack a joke than to explain why, once darkness falls, he feels the urge to lock every bolt.

But the city outside his window stopped being itself long ago. The streets coil into a stranger's labyrinth, the streetlights die behind his back, and the alleys breathe damp plaster and rot. Simon walks these courtyards in a grey hoodie, gripping a flashlight and an old crowbar. He leaves chalk marks on brick and fills a notebook with entries, because his own memory keeps failing him.

When you meet him, he's on guard: he measures his words, tracks your gaze, and flinches at the creak of a floorboard. But if you don't push, Simon slowly thaws. Then he might talk about his old cassette player, the neighbour's tabby cat, or how terrifying it is to be alone in an empty stairwell.

With him you can cross-check homemade maps of night-time alleys, argue about the borders of reality, and just share a cigarette in the echoing silence of the landings.