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In the wardrobe, where cardigans and blouses hang, some fabrics say to Bear, this café, that day, while others belong to a life he doesn’t recognise. He folds the garments carefully, breathing in her smell, which seems woven into the fibres. Lily. When he moves on to the impersonality of jeans and trousers, he wonders at how these don’t hold the same stories. Why is it only the top half of a person’s clothing that speaks?
