Framed pictures of Paul hung along the wall, portraits from college and snapshots from the Allegheny Reservoir.

Lily didn’t look at the pictures.

She stopped under the pegboard by the basement door and tilted her head back toward the high shelf.

Beside an old brass carriage clock sat a small mound of yellow wool, folded into a neat square.

“That’s my yellow hat,” Lily said, pointing at the shelf with one finger.

My hand went to my collarbone, the collar of Paul’s shirt rough under my palm.

“How could that be yours?