It’s always there, the Sixten-shaped hole. A nothingness that has amplified the emptiness you left behind. It’s strange, but when Hans took Sixten I started missing you even more. Almost as though it were you he’d taken. My ears strain for the sound of claws on the floor, for a soft yawn. For the sound of your knitting needles, gently clicking together. But all I can hear is the hum of the fridge and the ticking of the clock.
