He’s holding me and he wants to know. ‘She died and Mother died. They both died horrible deaths and I should have looked after them and it’s all my fault.’ I meet his lovely, crinkly eyes and, although I’m feeling much better, mine fill with tears. He pulls me closer until we are pressed together in my single bed and his limbs enfold mine because they are delightfully longer. His legs are maybe 8 or 9 centimetres longer than mine, his arms maybe 4 or 5. It’s difficult to be accurate from this angle. I have a soft tape measure on my bedside table next to the photo of Nikola that I use to check the placement of the furniture every week, but it’s a little hard to reach for it now. His lips brush my forehead and my hair, and my face becomes pressed against his neck. It’s beautiful in here, warm. It smells kind. He murmurs in a soft voice like he’s comforting a child. ‘Listen to me Grace. Grace, sweetheart. It’s a bad dream, that’s all. No one’s dead, and no one’s going to die.’ The room is growing pale as the day arrives; it filters through my lace curtains and flicks across the floor.
