Cries from the past at Carlsten Fortress

Summer is over, the Book Fair as well. Thanks for the nice, fun meetings in conjunction with the exhibition. And thanks for all the lovely comments you leave here on my side - it gives me extra energy.

Now I sit here again, and yes, I should update the page more often, but I write and my entire focus is on the story, book 4th

Although I know what story I want to tell you it has been slow in the beginning. I could not remember that it was so slow last time, so I looked in my old notebook of "Porto Franco guardian" and realized that yes, it takes a while for history to find their way. When one looks backward looking way as direct and obvious out but it's not when you sit there and write. Although there is a plan so happens that unexpected things, and although it has itself created the characters as they take liberties sometimes not at all expected.
I started with research in earnest in March. Walked around with the commandant Eiwe Svanberg up on Carl's Fortress. Crawled in the aisles and let the light from inadequate flashlights illuminate our path, because the electricity refused to act. And I who am afraid of the dark and all.

The fate of life as I want to tell you about has been with me for quite a while. One person I often go and think about even though she had been dead for over 200 years.
A woman, amidst all the men inside the Carlsten. Isolated and locked up without any contact with the other prisoners or the outside world. Every time I open the door to the commander's house where she and the other noble prisoners were detained I cry
"Hey everybody here I come!" Just to warn them. And perhaps even prepare myself in an attempt to curb my hopelessly wild imagination. Actually, I would not be especially surprised if someone in the elderly clothes stepped forward and greeted me or asked me what I was doing there. If I had not died in the process.

Something happens to me when I come inside Carlsten walls. I wonder if there are vocals, cry and memories left by all those who served there. Or at least someone? If you put your head really close to the stone wall. Should not it do that?
I nod and whisper "God's peace" or simply "Hello" at the corner of the end of the long time that several people saw a soldier standing. Goes so quiet I can and take a breather on the other hand, thankful that no one laid a gnarled hand on my shoulder.

History is never farther away than it really? No further away than our memories and thoughts. The rain patters against the window and the apple tree branches reaching for the sky, fly high as I type on.