Our narrator – lonely, introspective, of uncertain reliability – is on the Greek island of Ermoupolis, drawn there by her adoration for and desire to please an older woman, Helena. However, Helena’s younger daughter, Olga, provides at first a source of annoyance, then intrigue. As Helena’s presence fades into the background, our narrator becomes more and more obsessed with her own ego, power, and desire for the girl she saw as an obstacle.

Hanna Johansson writes with astonishing precision, in that her ability to articulate feeling and sensation, both mental and physical, is unmatched. It is with this talent that she makes you enamoured with a story that sits awkwardly on your conscience. Do not underestimate the taboo likeness it has to Lolita, and do not expect the romanticisation of Call Me By Your Name. Johansson has done something similar but distinct.

Johansson is masterful at creating discomfort and crafting tension. The stranger, our narrator, tears apart bonds and social fabrics quietly – we can see, but no one else can. I found myself put on edge, in an addictive way, by each phrase. Johansson takes you slowly through a summer, and, despite yourself, you will let your feet drag and fix your eyes on the fascinatingly terrible thing in front of you.