And so when the time had come for them to move in, Lana and her mum and dad had all fussed around her, unpacking, restacking, rejuvenating, enlivening – whilst she stood still, and let them construct this new nest, this fresh start, this home in which Sol had never drawn breath.

She’d asked for a brand-new single bed in her room. A bed that boasted no memory of her dead husband, a soft fabric and feather-filled oblong used solely for sleeping, perfunctory, functional. And on the evening they’d finally moved in, she sat on the brand-new Solomon-free settee, and watched her mother unpack a box of photos and ornaments and knick-knacks that had been carefully packed by the removal men, finding places for them on the soulless, sterile bookshelves, in her soulless, sterile new home.

And it was maybe the eighth, the ninth item that Liz took out of the box which sent the jolt through her body, the shock, the sharp awakening. She watched as her mother carefully peeled back the protective layers of newspaper to reveal a small gift, wrapped in gold paper, with the words Happy Anniversary, my darling husband written on an accompanying tag.

Liz stared at it. ‘Oh my God, Catrin!’ she whispered.

Lana, who was sitting on the draining board of the kitchen sink, smoking out of the window because it was too cold to go outside, said, ‘What? What is it?’

Liz hesitated.

‘D’you want me to throw it away, sweetheart?’ she whispered.

‘No,’ said Catrin, reaching out for the unopened gift.

She looked at it for a moment, then took a deep breath before unwrapping it.

Mounted in a brand-new silver frame was the thirty-one-year-old sliver of paper on which Solomon had written his phone number and a message … the same sliver of paper that had been secreted snugly inside Catrin’s purse … the same purse that had been stolen from her rucksack somewhere in Athens, breaking her eighteen-year-old heart.

‘Didn’t I ever tell you?’ she said, her voice croaking and weak. ‘A year after we got back, my purse – it got returned. I’m sure I told you?’

‘Yes, I remember,’ said Liz softly.

‘No money in there, just my library card, and this …’ She held up the chunky silver frame. ‘I kept it for years in a box. Forgot about it, really. And then … I found it. And for our anniversary I had it framed … as a present …’

‘For Dad?’ asked Romy, her eyes big with sorrow.

‘What does it say?’ said Lana quietly.

Catrin paused, gathering her strength before stammering out the words, ‘Solomon Blythe, 091 066 5879 … And then …’ She stopped, blinking away the tears that were misting her eyes.

Lana leapt down from the sink and stood behind her friend, reading aloud the words in the frame, held in Catrin’s shaking hands.

‘Today when we built our pyramid of pebbles, the wish I made was to see you again. And I think that will happen.’