The room was quiet, except for the soft hum of an old turntable in the corner. Anni-Frid Lyngstad stood by the window, hands wrapped around a mug that had gone cold, her eyes fixed on the grey winter light outside. It had been years since she’d sung this way — no stage, no spotlight, just her and the memory of a friend lying in a hospital bed miles away.
The record spun on, its gentle crackle filling the spaces between her thoughts. Somewhere in…
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