A Light for Mormor and Fika Fest

The house had always smelled like butter and warmth, like coffee brewing at dawn and pastries cooling on the counter. Even years after she was gone, the scent lingered in their memories - the golden aroma of fresh baked goods, the sweet richness of toffee melting in a warm kitchen, the quiet hum of a home where love was woven into every small ritual.

When Lisa placed the candle on the dining table, she hesitated before lighting it. The label read Fika Fest, and something about it made her chest tighten. It had arrived as a gift from her sister, tucked into a package of hand-knit socks and a handwritten note that simply read: This reminded me of her.

The flame flickered to life, and almost instantly, the air filled with a scent so achingly familiar that Lisa closed her eyes.

It was Mormor’s kitchen, bathed in the golden afternoon light that streamed through lace-curtained windows. It was the way she would hum as she kneaded dough, the soft dusting of flour that clung to her apron, the way her hands worked with gentle certainty - rolling, shaping, folding warmth into every bite. It was the rich, buttery sweetness of cakes and pastries cooling on the counter, the caramel-like depth of toffee bubbling in a saucepan, and the faintest trace of pumpkin spice that signalled the arrival of autumn.

It was love, the way Mormor had always expressed it - not in grand gestures, but in the simple, steady comfort of warm pastries and steaming coffee, of hands brushing over foreheads, of a place at the table always waiting.

Lisa glanced at her mother, who sat quietly, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug. Across from her, her brother stared into the flame, his usual playfulness stilled by the weight of memory. No one had said it aloud, but they all felt it - the presence of someone who was no longer there, yet never really gone.

They sipped their coffee, sharing stories of a woman who had loved with her hands—through baking, through touch, through the way she would pat their backs and say, Sit, älskling. Fika is not meant to be rushed.

Outside, the early evening sky faded into a dusky amber, casting long shadows on the walls. The candle flickered, its scent wrapping around them like an embrace, like an echo of laughter from another time.

And for a little while, in the glow of Fika Fest, Mormor was home again.