Thora stares, stricken by something like fear. She ducks into the magazine section, pretending to browse. Maria Romero: her mother-in-law, her best friend’s mum, the other end of an overheard phone conversation coming through as static and noise. Thora’s knowledge of her is partial, one-sided, but it will have to be enough. She picks up a magazine about crochet and brings it to the till. “I’m a beginner,” she announces.

Maria makes a noncommittal noise.

Thora fumbles for change. “Not sure how much I can learn from a magazine, but . . .”

Maria takes Thora’s money and smiles. “Good luck,” she says in friendly dismissal.

Thora leaves, temporarily defeated. She scans back through her memories of Maria: slow to trust, especially in a foreign place. There is no way to get through this but patience.

She buys the magazine every week. Sometimes, she just gives Maria a friendly smile. Sometimes, she drops in a remark about a project she’s excited to try, or laments a technique she hasn’t been able to master. Six weeks later, Maria says, “We have a circle that meets at my house on Mondays. You should come.”

Thora feels like she has solved a fiendishly hard puzzle. She moderates her grin to what she hopes is normal. “That would be amazing. Thank you.”

Maria scribbles an address on a torn scrap of paper. “See you Monday.”

Thora leaves the shop with a spring in her step. “That was easy,” she congratulates herself, until she realizes she has two days to teach herself to crochet.

She spends a grumpy, tangled weekend in her flat. She hated crochet back when Santi tried to teach her as her long-suffering father, and the hatred has endured across lifetimes. Still, by Monday, she has enough of the basics to pass herself off as an enthusiastic amateur. She keeps her head down as she approaches the third in a series of identical tower blocks. At Maria’s door, she knocks and hangs back, crochet basket in hand, tempted by the urge to run. Santi is a baby. What is she expecting, to pick up where they left off?

Maria opens the door. “Thora, isn’t it? Welcome.” A small figure clings to her leg. “This is my daughter Aurelia.”

“Nice to meet you.” Thora looks down at the dark-eyed toddler. Aurelia, killed aged nine in a car crash. Aurelia, who moved to Cologne to help raise Estela after Santi died.

Aurelia gives her a mistrustful look and runs away.

Maria laughs. “Ignore her, she’s in a bad mood. Come in.” She ushers Thora through a hall carpeted with children’s toys into a kitchen where four other women already sit chatting over coffee.