Asta Nielsen first awoke to the restless hum of Taastrup’s commuter trains when she was barely fourteen. The station platforms, nestled between the old Taastrup Hovedgade and the quiet expanse of fields, seemed to her both magical and mournful: the trains pulled away every morning, carrying people to Copenhagen’s bright promise and, every evening, delivered them back again to the town of Høje-Taastrup’s gentle embrace. In the golden haze of early morning, the station looked like a scene from an old painting—dark silhouette figures boarding coaches, grey steam drifting lazily through the crisp air. Even then, Asta felt compelled by something deep inside her to understand the stories of those who passed through: the tradesmen returning from markets, the elderly folk clutching grocery bags, the young professionals in their smart coats and shiny shoes.
She lived with her mother, Ingrid, in a small house on Birkevænget, a modest cul-de-sac lined with chestnut trees that folded their arms above the pavement each spring in fragrant blossoms. Ingrid, a primary-school teacher at Peder Syv Skolen, instilled in her daughter a love of history and language. Many evenings, the two would sit by the window overlooking the quiet street, reading aloud from dusty volumes about Denmark’s past: the Vereeniging of Kalmar, the centuries of Viking voyages, the cathedrals rising in Roskilde and Ribe. Asta absorbed each fact with an intensity beyond her years, pondering the lives behind each name and date. She wrote in a leather-bound notebook she called “Folkeuniversitetet,” chronicling not only the history she learned but also her own reflections—brief musings on how the old tales of heroes and villians might still echo in people today.
By the age of eighteen, she was known locally for her calm wisdom, a quality that impressed everyone from her classmates at HTX (the technical high school in Taastrup) to the staff at Taastrup Bibliotek. The library, a modest building of red brick with glass-paneled reading rooms, became in many ways her sanctuary. She spent hours among the shelves, browsing books on philosophy, theology, Scandinavian folklore, and even the occasional poetry anthology. In winter, the patterned frost on the windows would catch the morning sun, turning the interior into a cathedral of light—an environment perfect for Asta’s contemplative nature. Townsfolk would often spot her at a window-seat, head bent over Kafka or Kierkegaard, pen poised over her notebook, jotting down lines of her own verse or sketches of the stories she imagined.
It was on one such late spring morning, when the air carried the briny tang of Øresund mixed with the gentle sweetness of blooming lilacs, that she first glimpsed Søren Højstrup. He was standing just beyond the glass doors of the library, leaning against a column with his bicycle propped awkwardly at his side. His hair was dark, slightly unkempt, and his eyes—when their gazes met—held a wary curiosity. He wore a leather jacket, though spring was already warm; there was a battered guitar case slung over his shoulder. Asta noticed, too, that he had a slight limp, which he concealed by shifting his weight constantly, as though he feared showing weakness in front of anyone.
Søren came to Taastrup from Aalborg only a few months earlier, having left behind him a series of disappointments: a broken engagement, the sudden death of his father, and the closure of a small workshop where he had been apprenticed as a luthier. Aalborg seemed a suffocating reminder of all that he’d lost. He had chosen Taastrup precisely because it felt neither anonymous like Copenhagen nor as burdensome as his hometown. Here, at the edge of a commuter line and surrounded by farmland and suburban sprawl, he believed he might escape the weight of his past.
He was twenty-two when he arrived, his knuckles still raw from months of building guitars by hand, his heart heavy with regrets. He rented a single room in an old brick house on Frydenløngsvej, not far from the railway and just a few streets away from Asta’s home. His landlord, a kindly widow named Ruth, ran a small café downstairs called Café Lykke. Each morning, she served fresh rye-rye bread with tangy havarti and poured strong black coffee for the regulars. It was there that he began to play his guitar again—quietly at first, only for the stray customers and for Ruth herself, who retained a keen ear for melancholy melodies.
Asta’s first brush of profound curiosity about Søren came partly from the rumours circulating through the library’s volunteer staff. Some claimed they’d heard him playing late into the night, a sorrowful tune echoing down the stairwell. Others said he was elusive, avoided gatherings, and rarely spoke of himself. The more people whispered, the more Asta found herself drawn to the space he inhabited. She wondered what an artist from northern Jutland, scarred by loss, might find in this quiet town of Taastrup—what stories he might tell by way of his music, what secrets he might harbour.
Two weeks passed before Asta resolved to speak to him. It was a Thursday, the sun slanting low enough in the sky to cast crisp shadows along the cobblestones of Hovedgaden. Taastrup Kolonihaveområde—an enclave of small allotment gardens—bustled with early summer activity: elderly gardeners weeding their plots, children chasing chickens, climbing frames creaking. A medieval church, Taastrup Kirke, stood at the head of the main street, its whitewashed walls and Romanesque arches a reminder of the town’s origins in the twelfth century. That morning, Asta had spent hours in a history seminar at the library, examining 19th-century agricultural reforms under the reign of Christian IX. She left clutching her notes and descended Hovedgaden with purpose.
Down the street lay Café Lykke, its green awnings flapping gently. A glass façade revealed a simple interior: wooden tables, mismatched chairs, and a counter displaying freshly baked kringle. There, in a corner seat bathed in sunlight, sat Søren, strumming his guitar and humming quietly. From where she stood, Asta caught fragments of a melody that sounded like the sea, as though he were somewhere along Skagen’s northern shores, recalling the roar of waves.
She paused at the threshold, taking a breath. The café’s door chimed softly as she entered. Despite the warmth of the morning, she felt an odd cold flutter inside her chest, as though her entire being were holding its breath. She walked to the counter. “Godmorgen,” she said, in a voice steadier than she felt. “May I have a latte and a slice of your lemon-lime kringle, please?”
Ruth, dusting the counter, looked up and recognised Asta from the library. “Of course, dear. One latte, one kringle. You can sit anywhere.” She slid a white plate and a cup towards her. Behind all her warmth, Asta detected the smallest flicker of something—encouragement, perhaps.
She carried her tray to a small table near the window, carefully laid her books beside it, and opened her notebook. She was halfway through a passage on Søren Kierkegaard’s fear and trembling, marking particularly the sections on existential dread. She asked herself, “What makes a person so afraid of life that only the strings of a guitar can speak for them?”
As if in answer, the young man rose from his seat and approached the counter, ordering a black coffee to go. He tucked his guitar into its case, then manoeuvred past Asta’s table. Their eyes met once more—his gaze curious, hers open and direct. In that moment, the world outside felt to her like a pale stage set for something unfolding beyond sight.
“Excuse me,” she said as he stepped by, slightly more gently than she’d intended. “I think I heard you playing something … remarkable. Do you mind if I ask what you’re working on?”
He paused at the counter, coffee in hand, and regarded her: a young woman whose intense blue eyes shone with genuine interest. Perhaps he expected judgement or hollow praise, but instead she looked at him as though she were meeting an ally—someone with a language for the unspoken.
“I’m composing,” he replied after a moment, voice low, marked by a slight rasp. “A tune for someone I lost. It’s not finished.” He gently lifted his guitar case and turned towards the door. “Thanks for listening,” he said softly. Then he left, stepping into the sunlight, dismissing her further questions without malice—but also without comment.
Asta pressed her pen into her lower lip. Something about that refrain—“a tune for someone I lost”—lingered. She watched until he disappeared around the corner of the street. Taastrup’s bustle resumed: a bicycle bell here, footsteps there, the hum of an idle bus idling by. But for Asta, the moment felt suspended, as though time had drawn a breath and settled on the idea that something significant had just begun.
The next week, Asta found in her notebook a simple sketch: two stick figures on a rough platform, a train between them—one leaving, one staying. Beneath it, she’d written, in careful script: “Connections happen on unsteady ground.” She kept the drawing in her wallet, pressing it between two receipts for remembrance. Each day, she walked past the station once on her way to the library and once on her way home from school. Each time, she glanced toward the spot where she had last seen him. But he did not appear.
It was a Friday in late June, the town preparing for Sankt Hans Aften festivities. Each year on 23 June, families would gather along the banks of Taastrup Sø—an elongated lake just north of the railway tracks—for the traditional bonfire. Wooden stakes, decorated with garlands of birch leaves, were set aflame at sunset while crowds sang “Vi elsker vort land” and children waved torches beneath the lengthening twilight. The warmth of the flames cut the chill of midsummer dusk, and there was always an undercurrent of reflection—after all, Midsummer’s Eve commemorated the arrival of St. John the Baptist, yet unofficially it signalled the midway point before autumn’s onset.
Asta, carrying a wicker basket of homemade open-faced sandwiches topped with pickled herring and chopped chives, made her way across the grassy slope near the lake’s edge. She’d invited her closest friend from the library, Johanne, to join her. Johanne arrived soon after, wearing a long floral skirt, arms cross-stitched in various runic patterns—her own modest homage to Denmark’s past. They found a spot among familiar faces: the librarian Morten, clad in a bright yellow raincoat against the possibility of sudden drizzle, and his wife Camilla, passing around thermoses of hot gløgg spiced with cinnamon and cloves. Behind them, nurses and orderlies from the nearby Københavns Universitetshospital—once known as Hvidovre Sygehus—laughed as they set down crates of cold beers. The roar of the bonfire blazed, the scent of pine torched and sweet drifted over the gathering.
Asta settled on the grass, half-listening to a folk musician play a violin near the water’s edge. Yet her attention kept flitting to the path leading back to Taastrup Station, as though she expected him to appear any moment. Johanne nudged her. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” Asta replied, voice tinged with both certainty and curiosity. “I—I thought I might see him here. That man from the café.”
Johanne raised an eyebrow. “Søren? He’s not exactly a festivity-goer, is he? Still, perhaps he’ll come to lose himself in the fire’s light.”
Asta offered a slight smile. “Perhaps.” She did not add that she thought there was something sacred about Midsummer’s Eve, an occasion where the barrier between prospect and memory thins. If ever a new connection were to be forged, the enchanted ambience of this night felt right.
As darkness deepened and the crowd swelled, the ceremonial speeches began. The mayor of Høje-Taastrup municipality—Henrik Lange—spoke of community, of tradition, of the importance of preserving Taastrup’s small-town heart even as suburban developments crept outward. He mentioned, too, that the newly renovated Rosenhøj Kaserne Park would be inaugurated next month, commemorating the area’s former role as a military exercise ground until the early nineteenth century. Then the flame crept along the rows of timber, roaring skyward and sending sparks rising like fireflies.
In the flickering glow, Asta could just make out the faces of her neighbours: farmers, schoolteachers, factory workers from the local Novo Nordisk plant, even a handful of students from University of Copenhagen’s Taastrup extension campus, now gathering courses in environmental science and agronomy. Some held the hands of small children, lighting sparklers; others raised smartphones to record the flames for distant friends. The scent of burning pine mixed with the cool tang of nearby water, the murmur of the crowd layered with crackles and pops from the fire.
And then she saw him. Søren stepped from the shadows near the station path, moving slowly towards the glow, his guitar case strapped to his back. He had swapped his leather jacket for a dark-blue denim shirt rolled to the elbows; his hair was damp where sweat had gathered. He hesitated at the fringes of the crowd, as though unsure whether to approach or flee. For a moment, their eyes met across the half-lit expanse; she felt something taut inside her loosen. She stood and beckoned with a gentle wave, and, after a heartbeat’s hesitation, he came.
He carried no basket of food, no invitations, only the case at his back. Despite the solemnity of the evening, his presence felt as natural to her as the fire’s roaring. Asta guided him to a spot upon the grass near where they had sat. Johanne rose to welcome him, pressing hot gløgg into his palms. “Sankt Hans Aften,” Johanne said, nodding, “a feast for the senses.”
Søren gave a half-smile and took a sip of the spiced wine. The tang of cloves surprised him, but it warmed his chest. “Thank you,” he said quietly to Asta. “For inviting me.”
She shrugged, as though it were the simplest courtesy in the world. “It is a Taastrup tradition. Everyone is welcome—as long as they’re not afraid of a little flame.” She glanced at the bonfire, now a tower of light. “So, what brings you here?”
He looked up, watching the embers drift skyward. “I wanted to see if … if I could find some peace.” He closed his eyes and exhaled. “This place—your town—it feels … still, somehow. Unlike Aalborg, where the lights never stop.” He opened a finger to the honeyed air, as though catching dust motes. “I remember watching my father smoke by the harbour, the salt on his cheeks, the gulls circling above. Then the factory whistle would blow, and he’d sigh. After he died, I felt adrift.”
There was a hush as a portion of the audience chanted an old folk hymn. The words, in medieval Danish, swirled around them: “Vor Herre, vor Herre, hvor er din magt stor …” Asta felt goosebumps rise on her arms. She had always found it remarkable how memory and tradition could reach across centuries, and here, now, she felt that tangible thread, almost alive, connecting each generation.
He turned back to her. “You seem at peace, though. How is it that you know so much about human souls?” His question was earnest, not mocking; there was a gravity in his gaze that humiliated him, because he had never considered himself worthy of such a question.
Asta thought for a moment. “I read, and I listen. There are voices everywhere,” she said. She reached into her basket and offered him an open-faced sandwich. He accepted it, the rye bread biting slightly against his teeth, the tang of herring and fresh chives bright against the warmth of gløgg. “And here,” she whispered, gesturing to the fire, “there are voices across time. This church, that church,” she nodded towards Taastrup Kirke’s steeple, just visible above the treetops, “they speak of centuries: of baptisms, weddings, funerals. Each flame to burn tonight is a memory. You carry your father’s memory, and you honour it by being here.”
He swallowed. For a moment, grief flickered across his expression like a phantom. Then he nodded, as though accepting both her words and himself. The two sat in silence for a while, listening to the choir of voices—folk violins, children’s laughter, the crackle of wood turning to embers. Asta scribbled a single line in her notebook: “Healing is a kind of gathering, where we bring our fragments together beneath one flame.”
Later that night, after the crowd had dispersed and the last of the embers died down, Asta and Søren still lingered near the lake’s shore. The rising moon cast silver tracks across the water; a few stars winked, stubborn against the light pollution from Copenhagen. They took off their shoes, letting their feet rest on cool grass, and stared out at the dark ribbon of water.
“I’ve spent nights where I could hear my own heart,” Søren finally said, voice muted. “Since father died, I’ve tried to lose myself in music. But there were times I thought: if the notes could break, maybe I could, too.” He ran a hand through his hair, jaw tense. “Do you ever feel like you don’t deserve to move on? Like, if you heal, you’re betraying those you loved?”
Asta took a slow breath. “I feel that guilt often,” she confessed. “My grandmother died when I was young, and I thought that if I laughed, it meant I’d forgotten her. But then I realised: to carry her memory is not the same as being trapped by it. It’s honour, not betrayal.” She paused, gazing at the reflection of the moon on the lake. “Perhaps we are all taught, by the ones we lose, to let our spirit fly. They need not tether us to sorrow; they ask us only to prevail on their behalf.”
He closed his eyes, listening. A distant train rumbled across a bridge above, its lights shining brightly for a moment. Then perhaps he saw her face in his mind’s eye: the way moonlight caught her hair, the earnest steadiness in her eyes. “Asta,” he said, and his voice cracked. “I’m scared—scared that I’ll never be able to feel properly again. That music is all that remains for me.”
She reached out, tracing the line of his cheekbone, brushing away an invisible tear. “Your music flows from your heart,” she said. “And your heart still beats, no matter how broken you think it is. Let it live, let it love again.” She paused, breathing in the earthy smell of grass and moonlit water. “You moved here for peace. Perhaps tonight, you have found a glimmer of it.”
Søren opened his eyes. The white light of the moon made the lake like molten silver. He searched her face, as though seeking truth; then he nodded. “Can I ask you something?” he said, in a hushed tone.
“Anything.”
“Why do you help me?” he whispered, voice raw with vulnerability. “Why do you care?” He set his guitar case gently on its side, unzipping it to reveal the wood inside. He lifted his guitar and strummed a single chord—a resonant A minor. It thrummed in the hush, nearly matching the beating of his own heart.
She placed her hand atop his. “Because you are human,” she replied simply. “Because your voice needs to be heard, and your music needs to be sung.” She stopped, blinking to hold back tears of her own. “Because when I see you here, by the lake, I see a story that deserves a chance to be told.”
He was silent then, and for the rest of the night, they sat by the water’s edge, sharing fragments of the past: Asta spoke of her mother’s lessons on Danish history, of her dreams to study anthropology at the University of Copenhagen; Søren told of his father’s workshop in Aalborg, of building the first guitar at fourteen, of how the notes felt like a second pair of lungs. They talked until the moon sank low behind the trees, until the air dipped with the chill of approaching dawn. When they finally stood, shoulders touching in the softest of embraces, they knew that something unusual had begun—an intertwining of spirits forged beneath the watchful gaze of Taastrup’s midsummer sky.
The days that followed were drenched in the kind of warmth only a Danish summer can bring: long hours of sunlight, fields of shining wheat swaying in gentle breezes, the scent of fresh-cut grass and the distant salt from Øresund. Asta and Søren found themselves drawn together as though by some unseen magnet. They spent mornings in the library, poring over texts—him flipping through volumes on music theory and stringed instruments, her browsing tomes on folklore and medieval sagas. At lunchtime, they would slip away to Café Nørskov, a modest eatery on Hovedgaden famed for its open-faced smørrebrød. Here, they shared plates of leverpostej with crispy bacon, cold cuts of roast beef drizzled with remoulade, and, always, a round of freshly baked rugbrød in its dense, malty glory. They sat at a small wooden table by the window, watching cyclists pass up and down the street and pigeons strutting along the pavement.
Their conversation ranged widely: he described the intricacies of crafting a lute, the way his father’s hands guided him, coiling strings just so, feeling the grain of seasoned wood beneath his fingertips. She told of her childhood trips to Ribe Cathedral, the way the ribbed vaults had seemed to hum, emanating something akin to prayer. They discovered a shared love of Rudyard Kipling’s poems—Asta from an English translation she’d found in the library, and Søren from his mother reading aloud when he was small. It felt to them as though they were rekindling old memories, as though the act of speaking created something that had lain dormant inside each of them.
By mid-July, they had established a small routine. Three mornings a week, they attended a pottery workshop at Taastrup’s Kulturhus, a low-slung building of brick and timber that hosted exhibitions, concerts, and classes. The workshop teacher, an amiable potter named Mette Christensen, welcomed them both. Soon, grey clay smeared their hands as they shaped bowls and mugs, sharing tools and laughter. Asta would sculpt simple cups, inscribing runic-like patterns along the rim—verbal talismans meant to bring luck; Søren concentrated on coiling vessels, his fingers stained with clay, his posture Germanic and strong. They often worked side by side, and Mette, observing their easy camaraderie, winked to Asta one afternoon: “You remind me of those old Celtic legends: a bard and a witch, making their magic. Only in this case, you two are quite real.”
Asta’s eyes flicked to Søren, who shrugged as though embarrassed, but there was a softness in his eyes that she had not witnessed before. After the session ended, they would walk through Roskildevej, past the modest row of shops—boghandel (bookshop), a florist’s blossoming with summer daisies, a tiny fishmonger hawking fresh smoked trout from nearby Isefjord. On lazy afternoons, they would cycle out towards Hedehusene, where the old military grounds had been converted into a nature reserve, marked by oak trees and small ponds. They discovered a secluded meadow beneath ancient beeches, where they lay on their backs, letting the sun warm their faces as they spoke of hopes: her plan to travel to Iceland to study oral sagas, his dream of building a guitar worthy of a professional musician.
But beneath these bright and tender moments lay undercurrents of tension—echoes of fears neither dared express. One late July evening, they sat on the wooden bridge crossing Taastrup, the little stream that wound its way through the town before joining Mølleåen, which carried its waters to Furesø. The evening air was thick with mosquitoes, and the thick canopy of alder and willow trees overhead let only occasional shafts of golden light pierce through.
“Tell me something,” Asta said, her voice softer than a hush. “What do you fear more: failing to create something beautiful, or failing to forget the thing that broke you?”
Søren exhaled, his breath visible in the slight chill. He plucked absentmindedly at a blade of grass. “I think,” he began slowly, “I fear forgetting. That if I focus too much on building something new, I’ll lose the memory of why I started, of all I’ve loved and lost.” He sighed, then forced himself to meet her gaze. “My father taught me that every note played is an offering. But if I forget why I play—if the offering loses purpose—then the music becomes empty.”
Asta pressed her thumb against the wood of the bridge rail. “And what if the offering itself is the act of remembering? What if each new chord is its own form of tribute, so that what once was lost can be honoured again?”
He closed his eyes, nodding. “That is … that is wise. But does it not hurt to hold both—the love and the loss—at the same time?”
She reached out, gently brushing a stray hair from his forehead. “It hurts to be alive,” she replied matter-of-factly. “But to live fully is to welcome joy and sorrow alike. We do not choose these feelings; they choose us. Our choice is only in what we do next.”
He swallowed, clearly moved. The water beneath them rippled with the evening breeze, and the shadows of tree leaves danced on the surface like living runes. He opened his eyes, clear and steady. “You are a wise woman, Asta Nielsen.”
She smiled, though her cheeks blushed at the compliment. “I learned from the stories.” She paused, looking out across the water. “Those who came before us left behind their tales, so that we might learn. We carry them, and add our own pages. That is the gift.”
He stared at her, as though seeing her for the first time. “And what story will you write when you leave Taastrup?”
A memory flickered behind her eyes. “A story of how I fell in love beneath the northern sky. How I discovered that even in a quiet town, on an ordinary bridge, a life can be transformed.”
He nodded, absorbing her words as though trying to etch them into his heart. For a moment, they remained in silence, letting the murmur of the stream and the chirping of crickets fill the space between them. Then, as twilight settled, he brushed his fingertips across hers and lifted her hand to his lips.
In that moment, they sealed an unspoken promise: to carry each other’s stories as diligently as any ancient saga, to let their hearts keep time with both sorrow and hope. And as the stars began to appear overhead, they rose from the bridge and pedalled back towards Taastrup’s main street, side by side.
August arrived in Taastrup with a fierce shift in temperature—a cold snap that sent locals scrambling for their woollen sweaters and scarves. Summertime’s long days gave way abruptly to shorter, crisper mornings. Children in rust-coloured fleeces lined up outside Peder Syv Skolen, their backpacks a riot of bright prints, while parents gathered in defensive clusters, clutching thermoses of coffee as they exchanged hopes for balmy early autumn days. The motion of the commuter trains remained unbroken, though the passengers now sported heavier coats and hats.
For Asta and Søren, this was the most precarious time of their fledgling romance. The closer she came to leaving for Copenhagen, the more the undercurrent of their unspoken fears threatened to swallow them. She had secured a place in the anthropology programme at the University of Copenhagen, specialising in Nordic oral traditions. It was a dream she had borne since childhood—studying the sagas of Greenland’s Inuit priests, the ballads of Faroese fishermen, the ghost stories that drifted across Jutland’s moors. Her mother, ever supportive, had urged her to seize the opportunity. But leaving meant a rupture: she would move into a small flat in Østerbro, spend weekdays buried in lectures and libraries, returning only on weekends.
Søren watched her pack a battered suitcase one evening in early August, her window open to let in a slice of moonlight. Taastrup’s streets had grown almost deserted as night fell; only the distant bark of a dog and the hollowness of empty corridors in the flats nearby marked the hour. He stood in the doorway of her room—a simple space with pale-yellow walls, a single bed, a wooden desk piled with books, and a small window overlooking the row of birches lining Birkevænget.
She paused as she folded her sweaters, and he stepped forward. “You’ll leave next week,” he said, almost as a question.
She nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “By Tuesday. The first lecture is on Wednesday morning. I thought—” She swallowed. “I thought maybe you could come with me to the station.”
He flinched as though struck. “Of course,” he said in too-bright a voice, masking the twinge in his chest. “I’ll be there.” He turned away abruptly, setting down his guitar case with a thud.
She watched him, realising her own assumptions had been, perhaps, naive. He moved to the strained wooden bookshelf, picking up a thin volume of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales—her favourite since childhood. He ran his finger down the spine, as though seeking a familiar phrase. His expression was taut.
“Why do you look at me like that?” she asked softly.
He closed the book and replaced it with equal care. “Because I feel like I’m losing something again.” He tried to chuckle, but it came out hollow. “You’re moving to Copenhagen to chase your dreams. And I’m staying behind, building guitars for—but what am I building them for? Whom? A crowd in some dingy pub? I don’t know.”
Her eyes filled with tears, and she closed the suitcase with a gentle snap. “I love Taastrup, but my path leads me to the city. I hate the thought of losing you.” Her voice trembled. “But if we are to be more than a summer romance, this moment must come. I cannot stay just because you are afraid.”
He stepped closer, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I am not afraid of you leaving—well, I am—but I’m more afraid of what it will do to me. When you’re gone, I will be alone with my guitar and these walls.” He jerked his head toward her bookshelf. “And I will think of every note I play, hearing only how empty they sound without you here to listen.”
She knelt beside him, taking his hand in hers. “Søren, I need to do this. You knew when we met that my dreams would take me to Copenhagen. I don’t want to look back one day, regret not pursuing what I was born to do. But I also don’t want to lose you.”
He closed his eyes, leaning into her. “Then, please—promise me you will write.” His voice was a whisper. “Even if it’s only a word or two, let me know how you are. Because I don’t think I can bear silence.”
She drew a shaky breath. “I promise,” she said. “I’ll write every week.”
He nodded, not looking convinced, but nodded. Then she wrapped her arms around him, and he rested his chin on her shoulder. Outside, a train shuddered by on its way to Copenhagen, its lights trailing like ghosts along the darkened platform.
Tuesday afternoon broke pale and damp. A cool drizzle pattered against the windows of Birkevænget as Asta stepped out of her house, rolling her suitcase with careful precision. Her mother, Ingrid, stood at the front gate, holding an umbrella—one of those old wooden-handled versions with a canopy of maroon oilcloth. She embraced her daughter, knuckles white on the curve of her shoulders.
“Take care, my dear,” Ingrid whispered. “I know you will thrive. But remember, you have someone waiting here in Taastrup who believes in you.”
Asta nodded, tears brimming. “I know.” She kissed her mother’s cheek, then hurried to the end of the street. There, under the station’s canopy, stood Søren—his guitar case slung over his shoulder, rain-dark hair plastered to his forehead. He looked at her with an intensity that made her knees tremble.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
She took a deep breath, pressing her lips together. “Ready.”
They boarded the next S-train together, settling into adjacent seats. The train lurched forward, hurtling through the fields that gave way to stately houses of Brøndbyøster, then the sprawling suburbs of Vestegnen. The rain blurred the view outside: hedges of yew, lampposts casting golden pools, a stray cat scuttling beneath parked cars.
Neither spoke for most of the journey. Each was lost in their own thoughts: Asta rehearsed the welcoming address she’d give to her new classmates, strategies for navigating urban life; Søren ran through every line of the goodbye they had exchanged that morning, wondering if he’d been too harsh, too needy. When the train drew into København Hovedbanegård, a final jolt brought them back to the present.
Asta rose, gathering her suitcase and backpack. She turned to him. “Thank you for coming,” she said simply.
He bent to kiss her hair. “Go shine,” he murmured.
She forced a smile, fighting back tears. Then she stepped onto the platform, wheeled her suitcase along the tiled floor, and entered the vast concourse where streams of commuters jostled. She felt Søren’s gaze follow her as she walked toward the escalator down to Metro lines, his silhouette alone against the bright lights of the station. When she disappeared from view, he exhaled—a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding—and turned to find a café where he could hide his grief in a strong brew.
The weeks that followed tested them both in ways neither had anticipated. Asta immersed herself in her studies: lectures at the University of Copenhagen’s Faculty of Humanities, evenings in dusty archive rooms at Det Kongelige Bibliotek, weekends peppered with visits to museums—the Viking Ship Museum in Roskilde, the National Museum, the Holtug Krucifix. She wrote essays on the parallels between Danish folk songs and Icelandic sagas, compiled field notes on local urban legends in Copenhagen’s Christiania district, and attended gatherings at Sankt Nikolaj Plads, where folk musicians played reels until midnight.
Each Sunday, she set aside an hour to write to Søren. She described the smell of old leather at the second-hand bookshop in Nørrebro, the way the Thames looked from the bridge at Copenhagen Harbour–though of course it was the harbour’s own waters—the cold, brackish expanse reflecting streetlamps like fallen stars. She spoke of new friends: Katrine from Aarhus, with a passion for Husserl’s phenomenology; Jonas from Odense, an amateur photographer who captured steam rising from coffee in hipster cafés along Frederiksberg Allé. Yet every letter ended the same way: “I miss you. Taastrup feels worlds away here. But I carry you with me, always.”
Søren, at home in Taastrup, found these letters both a consolation and a torture. He kept them in a wooden box beneath his bed, opening each return envelope with reverence, reading her neat script until the ink blurred with tears. He wrote back only once every two weeks, about his work on a custom guitar for a travelling folk singer, about the weather in Taastrup—how the leaves already rustled gold, how the wind stirred up dust in the fields. He told her of Sankt Hans Aften once more: that year, it had been a small private gathering at the lake, just he and a few friends, the fire contained and quiet. He described the way the flames had danced, how he thought he saw her there, her face in the glow.
But Asta’s letters sometimes arrived late, and once, one failed to arrive at all; she’d forgotten to affix proper postage. When she phoned, her voice on the line trembled with terror, convinced that he had ceased writing because he no longer cared. He reassured her, but she heard the faintest rattle beneath his words.
The emotional distance became more apparent in mid-September, when Asta returned to Taastrup for a weekend. She arrived on a Saturday morning, stepping from the train beneath a steel-grey sky that threatened rain. She navigated the platform quickly, and there, waiting near the station’s exit, was Søren. He looked hollow, his hair cut shorter than before, dark stubble along his jaw. He wore a brown leather jacket that had once belonged to his father. She exhaled, thinking him unchanged—but his face held an unfamiliar reserve.
“Can we talk?” she asked, as they walked down Hovedgaden towards the café where they had first met.
He nodded, and they took seats at a corner table in Café Lykke. Outside, the first drops of rain tapped insistently against the windowpane.
“I’ve missed you,” she said simply, reaching across the table to place her hand over his. “It’s been hard.”
He looked down at their joined hands, his fingers twitching. “It’s been hard for me, too,” he admitted. “Every day I wake up hoping to feel better. But the letters—sometimes they arrive, sometimes they don’t. I feel like I’m losing you.”
She squeezed his hand. “I didn’t realise,” she whispered. “I thought if I explained everything—my courses, my new friends, my projects—you’d know I still care. But I see now that you need more than words on paper.”
He met her eyes, and for a moment, all the hurt spilled out. “I need you here,” he said harshly. “I need to see you walk down the street, to hear your voice in the cafés, to feel you beside me. When I don’t have that, I …” He hesitated, tears welling. “I couldn’t sleep most nights this past month. I heard your name in every sound.”
Her throat tightened. “I thought distance could bring clarity,” she said, voice quivering. “That by focusing on my studies, I could come back to us stronger.”
He dropped his gaze to the table. “Strength is not built on silence. I love your passion for your work, but I miss the beautiful, ordinary things: sharing coffee at dawn, walking along the stream, the way you taught me how to read those runic patterns in the margins of old texts.” His fingers curled around her hand, grasping it. “I feel adrift without you.”
She placed her other hand on top of his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t realise how much I needed to be here, too. But I’ve been working so hard to prove myself … I never meant to push you away.”
He nodded slowly. “Then let me be part of your world. Let me visit you in Copenhagen—come to a lecture, meet your friends. Let me see what inspires you.”
Tears pricked her eyes. “You would do that?”
He lifted her hand to his lips. “Yes. I would follow you across any fjord, any city, any sea. Because if you are the tide, I want to learn to swim in your waters.”
She breathed deeply, relief flooding her. “I want that, too. I want you beside me as I discover who I am.” She paused, scanning his face in the dimly lit café. “You taught me courage once. Now I see that it is my turn to teach you.” She squeezed his hand. “I love you, Søren.”
He laid his other hand across her cheek. “And I love you, Asta.”
In that moment, the rain ceased, and through the café’s front window, a shaft of sunlight pierced the clouds, illuminating their hands on the table. Outside, cyclists resumed their rides, pedestrians hurried by with umbrellas folded, and a single sparrow alighted on the metal railing across the street. It felt to both of them as though the world exhaled.
That night, they rode together on their bicycles to Taastrup Sø, where the lakeside paths were now carpeted with soggy leaves in hues of gold and russet. Their breath rose in puffs as they pedalled, the air carrying the distant scent of woodsmoke from chimneys as families lit evening fires for warmth. At the lake’s edge, a small wooden bench—its paint peeling—beckoned. They sat side by side, the water dark and still before them, reflecting the black silhouette of the church tower against the autumn sky.
“I have a surprise,” Søren said, suddenly brightening. He set his guitar case carefully on the bench between them, unzipped it, and withdrew a small, gift-wrapped box. He offered it to her. “Open it.”
Asta untied the ribbon with nimble fingers and opened the box to reveal a slender silver ring, embossed with a delicate pattern of vine leaves. Her breath caught. “Søren … it’s beautiful.”
He smiled, but it was a bittersweet expression. “I thought that whenever you go away, you’ll have something that keeps me close to you.” He paused, handing her the ring. “Wear it when you’re in Copenhagen. Let it remind you that no matter the distance, I am here. And one day, when you finish your studies, perhaps this will be a promise of more than a promise—a bond to our future.”
Tears welled in Asta’s eyes as she slid the ring onto her finger. The silver caught the last light of dusk. “I will cherish it always,” she whispered. She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder.
He placed his arm around her, drawing her close. “I want our story to be one of many chapters—written across fjords and cities and seasons. I want to be your partner in every meaning of the word, as you are mine in all.”
She closed her eyes, imagining the years to come: graduations and exhibitions, concerts and lectures, dinners beneath Danish skies both bright and moody. In her mind, she heard a chorus of voices—the ancient sagas, the echo of her mother’s lessons, Søren’s music weaving new notes. She understood, as they sat there on the bench by Taastrup Sø, that their love would require both strength and vulnerability, a willingness to let the tides of change carry them forward together.
When the first star appeared above the church steeple, Asta nodded. “Yes,” she said softly. “Let us write the rest of this story as one.”
Autumn’s grip tightened over Taastrup. By October, the town was cloaked in a quilt of damp leaves and low-hanging mist. The fields at the outskirts stood barren, their golden stalks chopped down, the smell of freshly turned earth lingering in the air. The commuter trains carried men and women clad in thick wool, heads bowed beneath scarves, as they journeyed to factories or offices in Copenhagen. The local shops—Bageren on Hovedgaden, the kiosk at the station, the tiny butcher that supplied local farms—radiated warmth, their windows aglow against the grey skies. Even during daylight hours, the light seemed dimmer, shadows lengthening earlier.
For Asta, life in Copenhagen had settled into a new yet comforting rhythm. Living in a tiny flat on Strandboulevarden, she had furnished it with second-hand finds: a pine coffee table from a flea market in Amager, a battered desk reclaimed from a university notice board sale, and her mother’s heirloom teapot, set upon a crumpled lino floor that overlooked passing trams. She walked daily to lectures in the old historic buildings near Nørreport Station, always amazed at the hum of the city—bicycles weaving through narrow streets, the murmur of multilingual voices, the scent of fresh pastries wafting from bakeries on each corner.
Still, at every turn, she felt the silent yearning for Taastrup: for the hush of the library, the steadiness of those birch-lined streets, and most of all, for Søren’s presence. She and Søren had instituted a new routine: he would take a train each Friday night to Copenhagen, catching one of the last S-trains that pulled in around ten p.m. They would meet at the station—she waiting on the platform in a thick grey coat, clutching a thermos of tea. Then they would walk to a café in Vesterbro to talk until the early hours, or simply sit beneath streetlights in Tivoli’s gates long after the crowds had left, sipping hot cocoa and letting the laughter of the arcade games echo around them as if from another life.
On a particularly cold Friday in late October, Asta stood on Nørreport Station, the overhead screens blinking 21:37: “S-train to Taastrup arriving Platform 1 in three minutes.” She zipped her coat tighter, pulling a woollen hat over her ears. The platform was nearly empty—only a young mother chasing a toddler and an elderly man lecturing a cocker spaniel on leash. She pulled out her phone, reading again the brief message he had sent earlier: “I have something to show you. Please be patient.” The words were simple but full of promise.
At precisely 21:40, the train wheezed into the station, its doors sighing open. She stepped on, waving at the conductor and scanning for him. He emerged from the corridor, guitar case in hand, cheeks reddened by the night breeze. Immediately, Asta felt her heart uncoil.
“Søren!” she called softly.
He smiled, and it was as though the train’s buzzing fell away. He walked towards her, folded the guitar case in his left hand, and enveloped her in a gentle embrace. Even through their heavy coats, his warmth seeped into her bones.
They rode the train back into Copenhagen together, sharing a bench seat near the end of the carriage. He held an envelope in his other hand—manila, thick with heft. Curiosity danced in her eyes as he slid it into his jacket pocket.
“Come,” he murmured, as they stepped onto the platform at Vesterport Station.
On the street, a sliver of moonlight illuminated the cobbled pavement. They wandered south, past the shuttered bars of Vesterbro, through narrow alleyways where late-night diners ambled and taxis idled. Finally, they reached a shadowed doorway marked “Rejsekort Café”—a hole-in-the-wall establishment known among locals for its steaming bowls of æbleskiver and pungent kop te (black Danish tea). They peeled off their coats inside, the interior dimly lit by hanging pendant lamps, a handful of patrons nursing late cups.
They ordered æbleskiver—puff pastries similar to doughnuts—drizzled with powdered sugar and accompanied by raspberry jam. As they ate, the hush allowed for whispered conversation.
“I’m glad you came tonight,” he said, placing the manila envelope on the table like a gift meant to be shared.
She regarded it with intrigue. “What is it?”
He leaned forward, his eyes serious. “Open it.”
Asta slipped a finger beneath the seal and unfolded the contents. Inside lay a sheaf of cream-coloured pages, carefully bound by a leather cord. It was a manuscript, its corners slightly worn. She picked it up, brushing her fingertips along the surface.
It was filled with her own handwriting.
She looked at him, confusion flickering. “Søren, I don’t understand.”
“I’ve been working on this since early October,” he explained. “I knew you were busy with lectures, and I didn’t want to distract you. But one morning, I woke up and realised there were things about our story—about you, about us—that I couldn’t keep in my head any longer. So I started writing.” He slid a chair closer. “Read it.”
She opened the first page. The handwriting was neat: “Chapter One: The Commuter’s Whisper.” It began with a description of that first morning she’d walked into Café Lykke, how the oak beams of the ceiling had held the dissipating warmth of summer, how he had seen her reading Harry Martinson’s collected essays. As she read on, he had chronicled each moment they had shared: the bonfire at Taastrup Sø, their first late-night talk under the moon, the work at the pottery workshop, her departure to Copenhagen. Each scene was rendered with tenderness, and occasionally, raw vulnerability—lines about how his world dimmed without her presence, about how he watched the leaves fall and thought of her abroad, about the sleepless nights spent writing his letters, uncertain whether he should send them.
Her breath caught at one passage: “In her eyes, I see a map of a thousand roads I have never walked. But I wish to travel all of them.” Beneath it, she sensed the weight of his affection, every word an offering.
When she looked up, tears glistened on her lashes. “Søren … this is … beautiful. It’s like you’ve sewn our memories together with ink.”
He reached across, gently brushing away a tear from her cheek. “I wanted you to know how deeply I feel. I wanted to preserve every moment, every small glance, so that even if I lose my way, I have these words to guide me back to you.”
She closed the manuscript, pressing it to her chest as though she might suffocate without it. “I don’t know what to say.”
He offered her a hesitant smile. “You could say you love me,” he said quietly.
She leaned across the table, reaching for his hand. “I love you, Søren. More than I ever thought possible.” She put the manuscript gently between them. “This is the most precious thing anyone’s ever given me.”
They sat for a long while after that—neither speaking, simply holding hands as they finished their æbleskiver, sipping tea that had long since grown lukewarm. Outside, the streets were empty now save for the occasional taxi rolling by, its headlights reflecting on wet cobbles.
When they finally rose to leave, Asta slipped the manuscript into her tote bag and pulled him into a tight embrace. “Come with me,” she whispered. “To Taastrup. I want to go home with you.”
He nodded, his face softening. “I want nothing more.”
They spent the remainder of the night on a slow train back to Taastrup, sharing the manuscript between them, reading passages aloud in hushed tones. Each sentence seemed to echo not only the past but also the promise of their future, weaving their hearts together in a tapestry of words. As they pulled into Taastrup Station, dawn’s first pink light streaking across the sky, they stepped onto the platform hand in hand—two souls bound by both vulnerability and hope.
Back in Taastrup, the town had settled into its autumn routine: the leaves along Hovedgaden had turned brilliant shades of crimson and gold; the laundry at Birkevænget hung stiff in the chill; the smell of roasted chestnuts drifted from small stands near the station; and on Sunday mornings, the soft susurration of hymns welled from Taastrup Kirke as locals attended services. Yet for Asta and Søren, everything felt renewed—reshaped by the act of sharing their deepest truths.
They returned to the pottery workshop, muddying their hands together as before. But now there was a new light in their eyes: a sense of shared purpose. When Asta went back to Copenhagen the following week, she did so with Søren’s manuscript tucked safely in her bag, the silver ring still upon her finger—a promise woven into her flesh.
They wrote to each other every few days, but no longer did she fear silence; they had discovered that words, though powerful, could never replace the sacred stillness of two hearts beating in unison. They arranged to spend every holiday in Taastrup: the crisp December days leading up to Christmas, when they iced gingerbread cookies at Ingrid’s kitchen table; Sankt Hans Aften in summer, when they stoked a bonfire on the lake’s edge beneath a sky lit by both moon and fire. They visited Copenhagen together, wandering Christiania’s narrow streets, talking late into the night at literary cafés and small music venues in Vesterbro where folk singers—perhaps even the one for whom Søren had once built a guitar—reverberated against brick walls.
Their love grew deeper still when Asta graduated with honours the following June. Her thesis, entitled “Interwoven Voices: The Enduring Power of Danish Folk Sagas,” became a modest bestseller in local university circles. At her graduation ceremony in the University of Copenhagen’s old riot house, Søren sat among her family, nerves jittering like small birds. When her name was called, she walked across the stage in an open-back green dress—its colour a nod to Taastrup’s midsummer fields—and accepted her diploma. From the audience, he stood and applauded, tears gleaming in his eyes. Afterward, she met him outside, and in that golden afternoon light, they embraced as the world around them cheered.
That evening, they returned to Taastrup for a small celebration at Café Lykke, where Ruth had reopened just for them. They toasted with strong coffee and lakrids-flavoured shots of schnapps, slices of kringle passed around beneath strings of fairy lights that flickered overhead. As night fell, they crossed the street to the small wooden bridge above Taastrup. At their feet, the river flowed gently, routing beneath birch-lined banks before winding toward Roskilde Fjord.
He reached into his pocket and produced a small jewellery box—a companion to Asta’s silver ring. She opened it with trembling fingers to reveal a slim band of gold upon which a modest sapphire glimmered. “Asta Nielsen,” he said, voice thick with emotion, bending on one knee and laying the ring in her hand, “you taught me to honour memory and embrace hope. You guided me through darkness and gave me the courage to love again. Will you marry me, and let us write the rest of our story together?”
Tears blurred her vision as she nodded, words caught in her throat. She gazed at the gold ring, then back at him—his dark hair damp with the evening’s breeze, his eyes shining like the lake beneath a harvest moon. She swallowed and whispered, “Yes.”
He slipped the ring onto her finger, and they rose to embrace, their silhouettes framed against the lights of Taastrup’s church tower, shining like a beacon across the still waters.
Tonight, beneath stars that shimmered like scattered shards of memory, they stood on the bridge—their hearts echoing not only tales of past sorrow but also the promise of futures yet unwritten. In Taastrup, a town both humble and historic, two souls had come together: a wise young woman who carried her ancestors in her heart, and a musician who had learned to weave his grief into his art. Their love, tested by distance and fear, had emerged resilient—an enduring testament to the power of memory, of shared stories, and of courage in the face of uncertainty.
As they crossed Taastrup, hand in hand, they stepped into the next chapter of their lives, certain that whatever storms might come, they would weather them together, sustained by the flickering flame of devotion kindled on a Danish summer’s eve.
If you want to read other stories from Denmark click here.
If you want to read stories from other places click here.
For more information check these posts:
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Sankt Hans Aften (St. John’s Eve): Denmark’s Midsummer Celebration
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Taastrup, City: Best Tourist Attractions, What To Do & What To Eat
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Zealand, Denmark Food Guide: 10 Must-Eat Restaurants & Street Food Stalls in Taastrup
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Sankt Hans Aften: come si celebra la magica notte di San Giovanni in Danimarca
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Song, drink, and fire: the best places to enjoy Sankt Hans Aften in Copenhagen
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Your Ultimate Aalborg Travel Guide: Tips for First-Time Visitors!
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