Stig gestures for me to sit by him but I shake my head, not wanting to touch his clothes. He frowns and turns away with a shrug. Worried I’ve offended him, I perch on the edge of the sofa.

He stares at the fire. ‘People say grief gets easier with time, like you’ve got the flu. No one says it hurts like a punch to the stomach.’

Sadness stings my eyes. Losing Mormor does feel like someone has punched me. I feel so sore inside I don’t know if I’ll ever heal.

My voice is barely a whisper. ‘And does it get easier – with time?’

Stig shrugs. ‘The first few days were the worst. I had these nightmares, really weird stuff. Dad wasn’t the easiest person to live with, but after he went … I don’t know. I had so many things I wanted to say and suddenly it was too late. I was angry, I guess.’

He forces a smile. ‘Every day is different, but, yes, it does get easier. Now I only think about the good times we had together. That way, remembering doesn’t hurt so much.’

I want to believe him, but thinking about the happy holidays I had with Mormor makes me miss her even more. Not wanting to talk about myself, I ask a question instead.

‘Your dad – how long ago was it?’

‘Six months.’

He picks up the coat from the floor and holds it on his lap. ‘This was his. It was the only thing I took of his, after he died.’ I think back to when I touched the coat in the woodshed, and how it seemed to have a split personality. Of course, it makes sense. I was reading the emotions of two different people.

Stig points to the elbow of one sleeve. ‘That burnt patch is from when we went camping last year. A log from the fire rolled on it.’ He shows me the beige lining. ‘And there, that dark circle is a petrol stain. I know because it happened when I was helping him fix his motorbike.’

Stig bunches the worn black leather between his hands. His voice is thick with emotion. ‘He wore the coat every day. He was wearing it when …’

‘How did he die?’ I ask.

Stig’s face darkens.

‘Sorry, it’s none of my business.’

He swallows hard. ‘A car crash.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

Stig mutters, ‘It’s me who should be sorry,’ then takes a deep breath. ‘When I wear his coat, it’s like he hasn’t really gone. After it first happened, part of me thought that if I kept the coat, he might come back for it. Stupid, I know.’

Before I can say anything, he kneels in front of the stove. The door gives a tiny squeak as he opens it. He pokes at the logs, though the flames already burn brightly.

‘It doesn’t sound stupid,’ I say.