Tethered

Written by Kranthi Kiran Parlapalli

Illustration by Megha Jain

(Olof and Karin, a peasant couple from the 1880s  Sundsvall, Sweden, have two children, Anders and Tove. Unfortunately, Olof passes away from tuberculosis, and Karin falls sick from pneumonia. The crestfallen siblings are met with the fate of working to earn a living and to support their mother’s treatment. Anders takes up a job as a coal stoker on a coal ship in Sundsvall’s Shipyards, and Tove starts working as a mill worker in Sundsvall’s Mechanical Weaving Mill)

05 June 1882,

Min Hjärtat Anders,

As the first rays of dawn creep through the grimy windows, I write this before the looms begin their endless clatter. Soon, my hands will be raw, and my fingers aching. The air is still for now, but soon, it’ll thicken with fibers, scratching my throat and stinging my eyes. 

Home is really quiet these days. Mama barely speaks with me anymore. Her cough echoes through the walls, and the eerie silence between her breaths feels heavier than the noise. I try to fill it with my voice, singing her favorite hymns and telling her about my day, but my words feel small, like whispers lost to the roar of the sea. I long for those days when the echoes of our laughter and shouts ricocheted off the walls. I miss how we used to play with Astrid, Agnes, and the others. They still play in the street every evening after school, their laughter ringing like the church bells at dusk. I wish to join them, but by the end of the day, my legs feel as heavy as the mill’s iron gears. I whisper a prayer every night for Mama’s health so that we can laugh together again.

Kram,

Tove.

09 August 1882,

Min Ljus Tove,

The incessant waves against the hull mirror the storm within me. Under the ship’s dim lantern, your letter feels heavier than the coal I shovel. My aching body fades beneath the anguish of knowing you’re alone in that mill.

I still hear your laughter, little one; it keeps me afloat in this unyielding monotony. It lingers as I remember us racing barefoot through the orchards, the wind rushing past, and playing on the beach under a crimson sunset, waves swaying to their tranquil rhythm. Your voice was always stronger than you knew, filling the house even in grief. Keep speaking, Tove—whispers and hums hold a power deeper than loud proclamations.

It’s tough out here, too, Min älskade; the long hours near the fiery furnace are suffocating, and the fatigue and sticky skin from sweat and soot are unpleasant. I pray with faith for Mama’s healing and the day we can meet and laugh together again. Hold on, Tove, You are the melody that soothes my soul in the dark.

Med Kärlek,

Anders.

13 September 1882,

Min Kära Anders,

A girl’s hand got stuck in the mill this week; her scream ripped through the air, outweighing the relentless clatter of the machines. I wanted to run to her, but the overseer’s cane cracked louder than the looms, his voice demanding we keep working. My fingers froze over the spinning thread, my legs anchored to the cold floor.

An old woman helped her and showed me how to wrap a wound. Her hands shook, but her voice was steady, quieting the chaos.

Remember when I scraped my knee on the rocks by the stream? I cried until you carried me home, whispering silly stories. Back then, everything felt effortless with you; now, everything seems enormous.

I want to be someone who helps, though it feels impossible. I dream of becoming a doctor. The old woman gave me a tattered medical book, and I read it whenever I could, tracing the faded pages, imagining a world where I could help people like that girl and Mama.

At night, too tired to lift my head, I stare at the stars through the window and wonder if you see them too. Do they shine the same for you, Anders? I picture us stargazing again like we did every summer. It’s all I think about when I see them.

Come back soon, Anders; 

Te hånd om dig,

Tove.

10 November 1882,

Min Lilla Ögonsten Tove,

My shift just ended. I climb to the deck from the furnace chambers to read your letter. For a moment, it feels like I’m with you and Mama.

The past few days have been rough. My cough worsens, every breath strained, my spine aching from crouching. The furnace’s heat is relentless, even in this biting cold. Last week, a man collapsed. We carried him out, his face ghostly against the grime. He never woke up. 

Take care of those hands, dear. They are meant to brighten countless lives. You are gifted, Tove—never think your dreams are foolish. I know the feeling of being torn between dreams and duty. But at night, I sit on the deck, shaping my thoughts into stories under a lantern’s faint glow. I keep a small notebook, jotting phrases during breaks and smearing ink on calloused hands. I long to write something that outlives me, to see my name on pages that linger in people’s minds.

And yes, my love, the stars shine just as bright here as in Sundsvall—like you will one day. And, Tove, I’ll be home by Christmas. I can’t wait to see you and tell you endless stories. See you soon, syster.

Vi hörs,

Anders.

_______________________________________________________________________

24 December 1902 

Min älskade själ,

You who hear my innermost thoughts,

The night is quiet except for the soft hum of the fireplace; the candles flicker as the wax drips down their sides; they stand defiant, yet I wonder—does the flame know it will wane? I set my pen down for a moment, glancing at the sky through the window. 

The night sky burns green and violet, ribbons of light unfurling above the frozen fields, casting long shadows on the snow. The northern lights return, just as they did in 1882. And that winter—the storm was unforgiving. I stood at the dock, waiting for a boat that never came. The pale and distant stars seem lost in the aurora’s brilliance, like forgotten promises fading into the night.

The scent of spiced apples and cardamom lingers. I close my eyes for a moment, and the past slips through like melting wax - the memories of Anders, red-cheeked from the cold, swearing he can drag the tree alone. Mother in the kitchen, cinnamon in the air, flour on her hands. Shadows flickering on the walls as we sat by the fire, the hush before Christmas morning. 

It feels strange now, performing the same rituals with hands that have held so much life and loss since then. The night before Christmas always felt endless, like the world held its breath. But now, I exhale, and it is gone. 

The clinic was full today—children with flushed cheeks, an older man with hands too frail to wrap his gifts. I tell them they will be well by morning, and for a moment, they believe me. It is easy to offer hope when it belongs to someone else. I envy them, in a way. I give them certainty, but where is my own?

I look back at the candle. The flame still holds on. I am not sure if I want it to last or go out.

Tove.