I watch Stig leave the cabin, then look back at my phone. Mum will be expecting me to text – if I don’t contact her, she might phone Dad. At least she won’t call his house, not when there’s a chance Chantelle might answer. Chantelle was Dad’s secretary before he gave her the job of mistress and then promoted her to wife. She’s fifteen years younger than Mum, has fake boobs, fake eyelashes and a fake tan. To make it worse, she’s totally genuine in every other way and couldn’t be lovelier if she tried. It doesn’t bother me he’s got someone new – Dad checked out of our lives years ago; I just wish Mum could move on.

In the end I message: Am fine, having a good time at Dad’s. I don’t put a kiss.

According to my phone it’s 10.45 a.m., yet it’s only just properly light. I look out the window to see the sky swollen with rain clouds. Stig emerges from the woodshed clutching an axe. He props it next to the porch, then takes off his coat and rolls up his sleeves. I watch his body twist and turn as he chops, the rhythmic swing of his arm hypnotising. The blade hits the wood with a satisfying thump and scrape. He throws the split logs aside and reaches for another. With his spiked boots and slashed jeans he should look out of place, yet he doesn’t. He looks at ease, like this is his home.

Stig glances at the window and I duck away. A few minutes later I watch as he strips off his waistcoat and rolls up his shirtsleeves. His body is lean and wiry with well-defined arms, as if he’s used to physical work. Kelly would say he’s hot, but then she says that about every boy she meets.

The pile of wood is dwindling. Soon there will be nothing left to split and he’ll come back indoors. Anxiety flutters inside me. I know so little about him, yet we’re going to be living together, at least for a while. Seeing him wield a weapon like a professional axe murderer isn’t exactly reassuring.

I drop the curtain and turn to the room. The cabin feels so empty without Mormor. Memories cluster like spiderwebs in every corner: the shells we collected from the beach; the rag rug we made together; the feathers we found on a walk.

Pocketing my phone, something occurs to me. Even if Mum burned her letters, Mormor would have received the ones I sent. I wrote half a dozen times. She would have known about my ability to read clothes and how desperate I’ve been to understand it. If Mormor asked Yrsa to keep the cupboards stocked, maybe she left a message for me. I jump to my feet with excitement. Yrsa said she’d known I would come.