He waited, and when she added nothing further, he invited her to seat herself. Then, with only one hand, he picked out a melody on the upper register of the instrument, where the notes were still in tune. It was vaguely familiar and infinitely sweet, and Charlotte found to her surprise that her cheeks were wet. Herr Rosenstein did not comment on her silent tears, but continued to play. It was not until the air was finished and the room silent for a few minutes that he remarked, ‘That was a movement from Herr Gluck’s “Dance of the Blessed Spirits”. I hope it was apposite. I cannot help but notice you wear a mourning ring, Frau Collins.’ He reached for the hand that bore a ring in which Tom’s soft dark hair was enclosed, and pressed it gently.

At this gesture of kindness, Charlotte gave up the struggle for control. ‘I had a son. He was beautiful and good and loving – so loving! He was a veritable angel. Oh, he was not well, Herr Rosenstein; we were lucky to have him as long as we did – or so everyone told us. He died just before the onset of last winter. There was no worsening of his condition that we could see, but one night …’ She could barely speak. ‘One night he went to sleep. And he never woke. My husband found him in his cot, unmoving. I never got to bid him farewell. I thought I was prepared, but I was not.’

Mindful of her daughter on the other side of the room, she tried to muffle her sobs, but the curtains did not stir, and she spoke, at first stumbling, and then with the words pouring out along with her tears. It was somehow easier to tell the story of Tom’s short life to a stranger who had never known him than to speak of him to those who had loved him, and who had shared her loss.