But I haven’t been able to get Kathryn to leave Robert’s bedroom. Since the funeral, she sits in there every day, lost in his sea of blue. I wait downstairs in the living room, a mug of tea going cold on the table in front of me, and listen to her footsteps above. I hear the springs of the bed moan as she sits herself down on his duvet. I hear the creak of his wardrobe door, and I imagine her reaching in to touch his jumpers, shirts, socks, again. I hear the groan of his drawers as she opens each one, and I picture her flicking through his sketchbooks, looking for something she hasn’t seen before.

Yesterday, I heard her close and lock Robert’s door behind her. She slid the bolt home, and I sat all afternoon, listening to the sounds of my wife in our dead son’s bedroom. I sat and listened, and, outside, it snowed. I didn’t notice this until it was quite dark and I’d stood up to draw the curtains. A thick layer of white had fallen over my garden. Even the stumps of my roses were covered. The reflection of the street light on the snow cast a yellowy light over everything in the living room, and I stood for a moment, looking back at my own imprint in the cushions of the chair where I’d sat all afternoon, and I heard the bed springs above me moan again, and I knew that she would spend the night in his bed.

In the morning, I knock on the door of his bedroom, and there’s no response.

‘Kathryn,’ I say. ‘Can I come in?’

I hear the bed springs go. After a few moments, she slides the bolt over and cracks open the door.

‘What do you want?’

‘Can I come in?’

She sighs and rests her head on the doorframe. Her hair sticks out to the side. I think of our son’s cockatoo touch. She closes her eyes and her dark lashes rest on her cheeks. Her cheeks seem dark, now, too. They have a hollow look.

‘Why do you want to come in?’ Her voice is a quiet monotone.

For a second I feel a terrible urge to shake her.

‘Please,’ I say.

She turns and sits on the bed, leaving the door open. She’s wearing her maroon dressing gown. It has a zip all the way up the front and an embroidered tulip on the pocket. I chose it for her years ago, thinking of the book on tulips that she’d held to her chest on the day we’d had our first real conversation in the library.