She looks at me with cold eyes. ‘Don’t you want to know?’

I gaze at the pitiful rag. I want to know everything there is to know about him, but not like this. I want the living, breathing Stig. I want to feel the warmth of his arms around me. I want us to share our secrets in front of the fire.

She uncurls a finger as if to release the cloth.

‘No!’

I snatch it from her and clutch it to my chest. The material speaks only of sorrow: every regret of Stig’s life distilled into a single bitter drop. Remorse writhes under my fingertips; strands of self-accusation twist and turn, tying themselves into a knot of grief. Stig’s guilt for calling his father that night. He should never have walked out on his mum. Shame, guilt, self-loathing. The cloth races through each misgiving of his life.

It starts to show me Nina but I pull away, not wanting to see. And then it shows the two of us together and I can barely breathe. Stig regretted not kissing me.

The cloth shows me an image of myself laughing and playing in the snow. I see myself as Stig saw me, and a rush of warmth spreads through my chest. My face is disfigured – it’s not like he didn’t notice – but Stig saw beauty in me too.

I feel the yearning he felt – he wanted to kiss me, but he was afraid he wasn’t good enough for me. Worried that he was too damaged inside to make anyone happy.

I glance up to see the draugr battling the dead, fighting its way towards me.

The material tugs at my mind and a different thread of memory catches. I see myself shivering on the sofa. Stig is pulling off my boots. He wanted to tell me how he felt, but the time wasn’t right; I was too upset. And then I see him kissing me on the head. He wanted me so much, but he was overwhelmed by emotion. He had finally started to accept he wasn’t responsible for his dad’s death – but his blame and anger had been holding him together. Letting go of them made him feel vulnerable, and he needed space to process his feelings. How could I have been so selfish?

The draugr is getting close. I need to run but the cloth won’t let me. Another memory demands to be seen: me standing at the front door, determined to leave the cabin. Stig gazes into my eyes. The strength of his emotion makes my heart beat fast. He felt so at home with me; he felt he could be himself and tell me anything. He was fascinated by my gift, by everything about me. He couldn’t bear the idea of losing me. When I kissed him, he pulled away because it felt as if I was kissing him goodbye.