The Winner

Tune in over the next several weeks as American folk singer Thom discovers what it really takes to represent Sweden on the biggest stage in Europe. 

The carpet was too soft. Every step Thom took sank just slightly, like walking over memory foam. The corridor walls stretched too long and curved just enough that he couldn’t tell if they were leading him deeper or circling back. The production assistant hadn’t said a word since they’d left reception. The tall, expressionless man in a black polo shirt with the SwedeTV logo embroidered on his chest—no badge, no name—just pressed on. 

Thom clutched his guitar case in one hand and his small canvas bag in the other, bumping the sides of his legs with every awkward step. The silence was thick. Their footsteps didn’t echo, and the harsh lights overhead didn’t buzz or flicker. The silence throughout SwedeTV headquarters felt designed. 

The PA stopped before a featureless white door and tapped a small black panel beside it. Thom, struggling to keep up with the breakneck pace through the corridors, finally joined him from several paces behind. The door didn’t open; it melted sideways with a hiss, revealing a small, impossibly white room. 

Thom hesitated. The assistant motioned for him to enter. “She will be with you shortly,” he said flatly, the first and last words he’d utter. 

Inside, the room felt colder—not from temperature but from absence. The white floor, ceiling, and seamless white walls reminded Thom of an art gallery after closing time, just the frame without the painting. In the center, a table of synthetic wood printed in a pale ash grain was flanked on opposite sides by a pair of chairs. A tall glass of water sat untouched in front of the chair nearest the door. 

Thom stepped in cautiously. The door sealed behind him without a sound. 

There were no windows, but the room glowed with a soft, diffuse light with no obvious source. He set the guitar case down carefully beside the chair nearest the door and sat, trying to avoid touching the table too much. It looked like the kind of furniture that would show fingerprints forever. 

Across from him, just above the height of his head, he noticed a small, nearly invisible, circular bump in the wall. A camera lens. Maybe two. 

Thom reached for the water. It was cool, but not cold. He sipped and immediately tasted the metallic tint of over-purified tap. 

He took a slow breath and glanced at the ceiling. The silence was a comfort after the breakneck pace of the last week. Every TV in Sweden seemed to replay Thom’s performance from the national finals nonstop on a loop. Surely, somewhere in the building, production teams were analyzing the footage of his simple, stripped-down love song, an outlier amidst the show’s sea of techno beats and sequined dance numbers. 

He hadn’t expected to win. Not really. He hadn’t dressed for it, hadn’t choreographed a performance, hadn’t worn eyeliner or glitter or any of the other unofficial “requirements.” Just jeans, a black button-down shirt, a stage light too close to his face, and a song about someone who left and never came back. 

He scratched the back of his neck and winced at the room’s stillness. The silence didn’t feel like waiting. It felt like an observation and assessment. 

He reached down for his guitar case just to hold onto something familiar. But just as his fingers touched the handle, the door hissed open again, and a pair of soft-heeled shoes clicked across the floor with perfect, unhurried rhythm. 

She entered alone. 

The woman moved like a ballet dancer trained in diplomacy, each step calculated to appear effortless and just slow enough to keep control. Petra Lindholm was tall but not imposing. She wore a pale beige pantsuit with no visible seams, high waisted and tightly tailored, cinched at the wrist and ankle like a garment designed to obey gravity less than the wearer. Her hair was pinned in a spiral at the crown of her head, the kind of style that looked organic but probably took half a team to pull off. 

She didn’t sit immediately. She walked halfway around the table, flashed a radiant smile, and extended her hand. 

“Thom Callahan. Congratulations. Or should I say, ‘grattis,” she said, eyes sharp, voice smooth as butter. “You caused quite the stir last week.” 

Thom stood and took her hand briefly, unsure if he should bow his head, nod, or smile. He awkwardly did all three. “Thanks. Uh, yeah, it was… unexpected.” 

Petra held the handshake one second too long before releasing him. 

“Oh, I think that’s the perfect word. Unexpected, indeed.” She moved to the opposite chair and sat with quiet grace. “Unexpected for SwedeTV. Unexpected for the audience. And, if I may say so, unexpected for you.” 

Thom gave a weak laugh and dropped back into his chair. “Definitely. I thought I’d maybe get a nice email saying thanks for playing.” 

“Yes. Well.” Petra folded her hands on the table, interlaced just so. “Apparently, the telephone voters had other plans. They do love an underdog. Especially when he doesn’t try to be one.” 

Her smile didn’t waver, but her tone clipped a millimeter shorter on “underdog.” It wasn’t unkind. It was precise. 

“I just wrote the song for myself,” Thom said. “I wasn’t thinking about what would win anything. I thought it was too… quiet, honestly.” 

Petra nodded as if she were grading a paper while smiling at the student who wrote it. 

“Quiet. Intimate. Authentic.” She drew the last word out with practiced warmth. “And that’s exactly why people responded. It felt real. And today, real is rare. Real is a… commodity.” 

Thom blinked. “Right.” 

She reached under the table, retrieved a sleek white folder with no visible fastener, and placed it in front of her. 

“Of course, we want to preserve that realness, Thom. We really do. Sweden has always prided itself on curating performers who speak to a continental audience. But we also want to ensure that the real you resonates with viewers at Eurosong.” 

He tilted his head slightly. “What does that mean, exactly?” 

Petra opened the folder but didn’t look down. “Just a little fine tuning. We’ve prepared a brief orientation program to help you explore the full emotional luminance of your stage presence.” 

Thom gave a short laugh. “I don’t know if I’ve got much… luminance. I’m kind of a ‘sit on a stool and let the guitar do the work’ guy.” 

“Yes,” Petra said brightly. “And we’ll work on that. We won’t ask you to become something you’re not.” A beat passed. Petra smiled wider. “We’ll just help you discover what you really are.” 

Thom scratched his jaw and glanced at the ceiling again. He could feel the hum of the cameras in the walls, tiny little eyes watching without blinking. 

Petra followed his gaze. “This is just a preliminary chat, Thom. Nothing to worry about. Tomorrow we’ll begin your prep sessions to get you ready for Eurosong. Costuming, vocal support, and choreographic conditioning. All very standard.” 

His brow furrowed. “Conditioning?” 

Her head tilted to the side, eyes twinkling. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s a lovely word, really. Just means preparation. Familiarity. Confidence. After all, you will be the first American to represent Sweden at Eurosong. We want to set you up for success.” 

She closed the folder. The sound was barely audible but final. 

Thom opened his mouth to respond, but her smile returned to neutral. 

“Would you like another glass of water?” 

Thom hesitated, then shook his head. “No, I’m fine. Thanks.” 

Petra’s eyes lingered on his face momentarily as though she were parsing a diagnostic readout he couldn’t see. Then she smiled again, leaned slightly forward, elbows elegantly brushing the table’s edge. 

“Thom, may I ask how much experience you have with large-scale staging?” 

He tilted his head. “Like, with dancers and lights and stuff?” 

Her lips curled in polite amusement. “I’m speaking more of immersive visual environments, synchronized lighting grids, kinetic broadcast platforms, and emotional timing metrics. Eurosong is a spectacle—Europe’s biggest music show.” 

“Uh…” he scratched his temple. “I’ve played at a couple of festivals in Denmark. I had a projector once.” 

“Of course.” She nodded with soft approval as if commending a child for drawing inside the lines. “That’s lovely. So you’ve had texture. Now we’re going to give you shape.” 

Thom shifted in his chair. The synthetic upholstery made no sound, but the movement felt uncomfortably audible. 

Petra reached for a slim white remote embedded in the tabletop, so flush with the surface that Thom hadn’t even noticed it. She pressed something, and one of the walls rippled open to reveal a screen. 

Muted and glowing softly, it displayed a still image of Thom onstage during the Swedish national finals, eyes closed, hands on his guitar, a halo of soft amber light behind him. It was his favorite moment from the performance—the breath just before the final verse. 

Then, the image came to life. But something was… off. 

The color temperature was brighter and more saturated. Thom’s skin tone was slightly glossier. The lighting flared in rhythmic bursts instead of the slow, steady fade he’d remembered. Even the song’s tempo sounded faintly sped up. It was subtle enough that an average viewer might not have noticed. Still, Tom knew every note of his composition like it was a lifelong friend. 

The camera cut to a close up. His smile held longer than he remembered. His eyes seemed wider. And then—was that a wink? 

“I didn’t wink,” he said, his voice flat. 

Petra tilted her head, her tone airy. “Memory is so interesting, isn’t it? This was one of the most shared clips on social media after the final. People loved the moment. The comments said it felt so genuine.” 

He stared at the screen. “But I didn’t—” 

She cut in softly. “You’re an artist, Thom. And, like all great artists, your work will evolve. You’ve been given an incredible platform. In a month, tens of millions of viewers will watch you represent Sweden to the world. People will want to connect. All we’re doing is helping that connection happen more smoothly.” 

“By doctoring the footage?” 

“By enhancing your emotional luminance.” She let the phrase sit in the air like a dropped perfume bottle. 

Thom turned to look at her, and for the first time, his voice had an edge. 

“My song’s not even a Schlager track. It’s not a pop anthem. It’s not what you guys usually send.” 

Petra nodded. “And that’s why it’s so valuable. Because it’s different. Unexpected. But difference needs translation,” she said, lacing her fingers again. 

Silence. 

The video looped behind them, restarting when “Thom” turned to the camera and flashed that unplaceable smile again. 

Thom dropped his gaze. “I don’t want to be someone I’m not.” 

Petra’s voice, without changing tone, seemed to grow warmer and colder at once. 

“Oh, Thom,” she said. “That’s not the question at all.” 

The loop stopped, and the screen froze on the final shot. “Thom” bowed over the guitar, haloed in a digitally enhanced golden light bloom. The whites of his eyes looked too white. His shirt, once black, had a faint shimmer now, barely perceptible but undeniably there. A suggestion of sequins that never existed. 

“That’s not what I wore.” 

“Ah,” Petra leaned back, placing her hands loosely in her lap. “You’re referring to the textural gradient enhancement.” 

He blinked. “The what?” 

“Just a soft overlay. This one is a wardrobe finish simulator. Just a skin that livens up the broadcast.” She smiled again, cool and symmetrical. “Most viewers assume it was always there. Memory is deeply pliable when it’s edited with care.” 

Thom turned back to the image. The outfit had changed tone slightly, too, with the black fading into indigo-blue and what looked like a silver trim at the collar—a kind of glam-gravitas. He hated it. 

His voice dropped. “Why are you showing me this?” 

Petra didn’t look at the screen. She was watching him. “You won over the audience here in Sweden, but you’re representing us to all of Europe now. This version,” she gestured to the screen, “is doing numbers on social media amongst 18-35s in the ex-Yugoslav countries.” 

“But it’s not what I gave them.” 

“It’s what they believe you gave them. That’s the same thing now.” 

Thom opened his mouth to argue, but Petra kept going. 

“You’ve been given a rare opportunity, Thom. Usually, the algorithm predicts the top three contenders before the dress rehearsal even airs. But you disrupted the model. Sweden fell in love with you. That makes you dangerous. And beautiful. And very, very valuable. We just want Europe to fall in love with you, too.” 

She reached over and turned the screen off with a single tap. The silence that followed was heavier than any music. 

“We don’t want to change who you are,” Petra said. “We simply want to support what you’ve already begun. Think of us as… framing your truth in a way the world is ready to see it.” 

Thom stared at the blank wall where his distorted self had just vanished. A bead of sweat began to creep from his hairline, but he didn’t wipe it. 

“Who decides what that truth looks like?” 

Petra’s smile sharpened by a fraction. 

“They already have.” 

Petra rose from her chair with the same practiced elegance she’d entered with. No wasted motion, no sound. Thom remained seated, his hands limp on the table, fingers loosely interlocked like he’d forgotten how to hold them. 

She reached under the table again and pulled out a second folder, identical to the first. This one was white with a faint iridescent sheen. At the center, printed in simple gray type: PHASE ONE: INTEGRATION. 

She laid it down directly before him, careful not to slide it like the table’s surface might bruise. Thom didn’t reach for it. 

“We’re so grateful that SwedeTV’s viewers have chosen you to represent Sweden at Eurosong,” she said, voice light as mist. “It’s a unique responsibility. And a beautiful one.” 

Thom looked up slowly, meeting her eyes for the first time in several minutes. His jaw clicked. “I just submitted a song, that’s all. I didn’t expect to win. I didn’t campaign. I didn’t—” 

Petra’s smile widened just enough to show the glint of her teeth. 

“Exactly.” 

She stepped back from the table. 

“The welcome brief contains everything you need. We’ll begin tomorrow morning. Your schedule has already been preloaded onto your SwedeTV-issued device. One of our handlers will deliver it to your new residence tonight. 

Thom frowned. “What new residence?” 

“You’ll be relocated to company housing for your participation in Eurosong.” She tilted her head slightly as if surprised he didn’t know. “It’s standard. You’re a celebrity now, Thom. SwedeTV takes good care of its talent.” 

“I already have an apartment.” 

She chuckled. “Of course, and it will be there for you after you return from the competition in Zagreb. But for now, we want to make things easy for you. Seamless. You’re part of the team now.” 

Thom didn’t respond. His eyes dropped to the folder. The sheen on its surface caught the light strangely, shimmering like oil on water. It looked expensive. It looked empty. 

Petra moved toward the door. 

“Oh, and Thom?” 

He looked up. 

“Sleep well tonight. Tomorrow is the beginning of something very special.” 

The door hissed open behind her. She stepped through, and it sealed without sound. 

A second later, the lights dimmed by twenty percent. Barely noticeable but enough to change the room’s mood entirely. 

Thom stared at the folder. 

He didn’t touch it. He didn’t stand. He just sat there in the cold glow, wondering how long the cameras kept recording after the conversation ended. 

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