Det gör varken från eller till

December 31, 2025

The wind howled around the corners of the small red cabin, a sound like a wounded animal that had been echoing through the valley for three days straight. Inside, the air smelled of birch smoke and strong coffee.

Elias paced the worn wooden floorboards, his wool socks padding softly back and forth between the frosted window and the fireplace. Outside, the world had been reduced to swirling white chaos. They were somewhere in northern Jämtland, miles from the nearest plowed road, and the blizzard showed no sign of letting up.

Sven sat in the deep armchair by the fire, whittling a piece of dried juniper with a small Mora knife. He seemed perfectly content to let the storm rage.

"I should try the radio again," Elias said, stopping by the heavy oak table where a battery-operated emergency radio sat silent.

"You tried ten minutes ago," Sven murmured, blowing wood shavings off his knee. "It’s just static, Elias. The antenna is probably buried under two meters of snow by now."

"But if the pass is closed, I need to know. I have that conference call on Tuesday, and if we don't dig out by tomorrow morning, I’m going to miss the flight from Trondheim."

Sven stopped whittling and looked up at his friend. Elias was vibrating with nervous energy, unable to downshift into the enforced stillness of the mountain winter. They had come here every year since university to escape the city, but Elias seemed to have brought the city's anxiety with him this time.

"Elias," Sven said gently. "Look outside."

Elias scraped a layer of ice off the inside of the glass pane and peered out. It was midday, but the sky was a bruised, twilight purple. The snow was drifting heavily against the woodshed, nearly burying the door.

"I know. That’s why I’m worried. Maybe I should go out and try to clear a path to the shed now, before it freezes solid tonight. Just in case we need more wood later."

Sven shook his head slowly, a small, resigned smile playing on his lips. He gestured toward the window with his knife.

"Look at that wind. You could go out there and freeze your nose off for an hour, shoveling until your back breaks. But ten minutes after you come inside, the wind will just blow it all back again. In this storm, det gör varken från eller till."

Elias stared at the swirling snow. He hated feeling powerless. He wanted to fix it, plan it, manage it. But Sven's voice, calm and grounded like the bedrock beneath the cabin, cut through his panic.

He watched a massive drift bury the top of the fence post he’d been using as a marker. Sven was right. The mountain didn't care about his conference call. The storm didn't care about his effort. Shoveling now was just burning calories for the sake of feeling useful.

The tension slowly leaked out of Elias's shoulders. He turned away from the window and the hostile white world outside.

"Alright," Elias sighed, sinking onto the sheepskin rug in front of the fire. "Alright. You win. Pass me that bottle of glögg."

Sven chuckled and reached for the bottle warming on the hearth. "I wasn't trying to win, my friend. I was just trying to get you to sit down before you wore a hole in the floor."

Det gör varken från eller till

It is a common Swedish idiom that means it makes no difference or it doesn't matter either way. It is used when an action, a detail, or a change has no impact on the final result or the current situation.