An example book, every page

Linnea and Oskar

Gothenburg, Sweden, 2016 to today. The occasion: our anniversary. Fourteen memories, written as a love note from Linnea to Oskar and painted from their photos. This is the whole book, cover to last page, as it prints.

Who they are

Ten years from a rainy bike workshop in Majorna: a nurse, the man who fixed her chain, Thursday swims off the granite, a cinnamon bun the size of a plate, and Sixten the black Lab.

The honest part

Linnea and Oskar are an invented couple. We wrote their answers and made their photos ourselves to show you what a finished book looks like. Every page here was then written and painted by the same process a real order goes through, and nothing was drawn by hand.

Our story begins
Picture this: 12 September 2016, the rain coming down in sheets, as if the sky was doing an impression of a leaky faucet. I was pedaling along Karl Johansgatan when suddenly, disaster! That wretched chain decided to take a solo vacation. I marched into the first bike workshop, leaving a trail of rainwater across the floor.
You took one look at my chainless bicycle and whipped out a zip tie. "So you can get home," you said, before bothering to introduce yourself.
Page 1 of 14
The first date
I still remember the crisp November air nipping at our noses as we ducked into the cozy warmth of Café Husaren. The aroma of freshly baked cinnamon rolls enveloped us like a sweet welcome mat.
When that beast of a pastry arrived, the size of a plate, we shared it, and I declared with a full mouth, "The bun is a meal!" Your laughter rang out, echoing off the cream walls, and other patrons turned to smile at the joyous sound.
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When I fell for you
There we were, in the warm glow of midsummer's eve at your parents' red cottage on Orust. The air buzzed with laughter as we danced around the maypole, everyone doing their best to remember the steps.
I felt my cheeks flush, and I was pretty sure I resembled a flailing windmill more than a graceful dancer. Then you appeared by my side. Afterwards, over herring and new potatoes at the long table, I knew that night.
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Every beautiful door
Take these photos you keep sending me. Everywhere you go, if you spot a door that catches your eye, snap! There it is, popping up on my screen. A glimpse of your day, your perspective.
I'll be sitting at work, or home with Sixten, and suddenly, boom. A door from some cobblestone street. Each one a little postcard from your wanderings. Every one tells a story, not just of the door, but of you. Your eye, your mind, your quirks.
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First impressions
It was pouring that day when my bicycle chain came off on Karl Johansgatan. I stomped into your workshop, soaked to the bone and in no mood for delays. Water dripped from my hair, pooling on your clean floor. I'm sure I looked quite the sight, a wet cat about to argue with anyone in my path.
But you just looked at my chain like it was the most interesting thing that had happened all day.
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Who noticed first
Black grime coated your hands, but before you touched my bicycle you'd noticed my chattering teeth and put the kettle on. I stood there dripping rain, annoyed. Then, without glancing up, you said your very first words to me: "so you can get home."
Before your name, before any pleasantries, you were already looking out for me. I felt my irritation drain away. Those grease-streaked hands just meant you cared, and I started seeing you. And I liked what I saw.
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The bun is a meal
Remember the hagabulle we shared on our first date? That beast of a pastry was a meal in itself, so huge, so rich, so perfectly too much in the best way. It's become our word for anything like it: an enormous sandwich, a long holiday.
Or Sixten, curled on the sofa, his black bulk taking up the whole thing and then some. That's classic bun behavior, Ossi, and we wouldn't have it any other way.
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Keys day at Saltholmen
The sun warmed our faces as we clambered over the rocks at Saltholmen, thermos and sandwiches in hand. We'd done it, finally: the keys to our very own place jangled in your pocket. We found our spot, a smooth flat stone facing the shimmering sea and the green humps of the islands in the distance.
I leaned my head on your shoulder. "Can you believe it? Our flat in Majorna." Just you, me, and the whole vast blue horizon ahead of us.
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Our yes
We signed the lease in March 2019, no ring on my finger, but a promise passed between us nonetheless. Then we hauled the secondhand table, a little battered but full of potential, up three flights of narrow stairs in Majorna. Our arms strained and our breath came hard, but we didn't stop.
With a triumphant laugh, we heaved it through the door. There, in the middle of our yellow kitchen, we looked at each other and smiled. This was our yes.
Page 9 of 14
Thursday swims
The first Thursday in August 2020, fog still clinging to the shore at Saltholmen, Sixten bounded about, exploring every inch. He paused and looked back at us as if to say, "You're going in there? I'm not sure I approve."
But when you picked him up and wrapped him in a towel, his tail wagged like a metronome. From that day on, he's guarded our towels on the rocks while we plunge into the sea at seven, even in January snow.
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Breakfast on the bonnet
I remember the morning the snow was falling so thick, you could barely see the road. It was that hard spring. You drove through it at six, a hagabulle still warm in its paper bag, to the hospital car park.
And there you were when I trudged out in my coat, ready to collapse after another long shift. We sat on the bonnet of the car, flakes melting into our hair, and ate that bun, happy to be breathing the same air.
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Porridge songs
The yellow kitchen hums with a familiar tune today, and it's coming from you. I smile to myself as you potter at the stove, making our morning porridge.
Sixten lies at your feet, his tail thumping against the floor in time. He seems to be listening intently, his head tilted as if trying to understand the lyrics. And here you are, singing like you're on stage, for no reason other than the pure joy of it.
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The middle of the bun
Ten years ago, you fixed my bike chain with a zip tie and a calm face, and you're still looking after me. Like now, as we sit in our yellow kitchen, you've pushed the best part of the bun, the soft, gooey middle, towards my side of the plate.
A silent "I did this for you" passes between us, just like it has a hundred times before. That's you: steady, reliable, making my life a little sweeter, one small gesture at a time.
Page 13 of 14
Same table, Saturday
Ten years ago, you fixed more than just my bike chain, Ossi. You captured my heart, greasy hands and all.
I want to celebrate us at that cozy corner in Café Husaren. Same table, same smile across from me. But this time, I'm treating you. A bun, a coffee, and gratitude for every moment, every challenge, every laugh we've shared. And I'm just getting started with you. So, Saturday? Your bun. I'm buying.
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