It is him. She is quite sure of that. She tells Anna first. 'Plemplem', is the little sister's reply. She tells her mother. But she just laughs. It is a strange, loud laugh. And then the mother is quite serious and says: 'Be quiet. Your dad is in heaven, you know that.' While her mother goes shopping in the village and he works in the stable, Eva searches through the cupboard. That's where the photos are. There is an album and the colourful box. In the album are yellowed black and white photos of the great-grandparents, the great-grand aunts and the great-grand cousins. Nothing. No picture of Dad. In the box are the photos that don't get pasted. But too good to throw away, the mother always says. She looks through each photo individually. And again. She must have missed something. Mother as a young girl. But there is no photo in which her father is to be seen. Once his knitted waistcoat on the bench, once a slipper across the bottom of the picture on the carpet. Eva as a baby, with a big cake, a candle in the middle. Eva on the hanging swing, two candles, with the tricycle, three candles. Her fourth birthday is missing. And then Anna is always in the photos. I'm going to dream about Daddy, she resolves. 'Aren't you feeling well?' asks her mother. 'No,' says Eva. 'Do you have a fever?' she asks as she grabs her forehead. 'I'd better go to bed early tonight,' says Eva, trying to speak as little as possible. Talking too much is always suspicious.