The first months after my husband’s passing, I didn’t have much strength.Friends invited me to dinners, conversations, and warmth, and I could feel surrounded by love—but after an hour I wanted to go home again. To the solitude. To my bodyguard. Every day I looked at photographs of him. Perhaps it is about strength running out. Perhaps it is about something else—a need to be swallowed by memories, to not be interrupted in grief. I had a conversation with Håkan Ludwigson, a