Jimmie’s POV
I sat still on the cushion, the silence of the apartment pressing in around me like a second skin.
In my hands was Clementine’s sweater—one of her favorites. I had gotten it for her last birthday, wrapped it in crumpled brown paper because she hated anything too perfect. I still remember how her eyes had lit up when she saw it. She’d said, smirking with that half-wild look in her eyes, “Oh, Jimmie, is this your subtle way of admitting I have excellent taste in chaos?”
I had laughed. Not because it was funny, but because she was. Clementine had this way of making you laugh when you least expected to, as if her words were little detonations of affection laced in sarcasm.
The sweater matched her spirit completely. It was this cosy oversized knit thing, the colour of burned a
