Raindrops lazily slid down the fogged-up windowpane.

Outside the window, the world was flat and shapeless, submerged in the grey of that late-autumn morning.

“Fantastic,” Lilia muttered to herself as a shiver ran down her spine. “Another rainy day. Just what I needed.”

The radiators had been on for over an hour, but she still couldn’t stop shivering. Beyond the glass, the world was coming alive, growing louder by the minute, a sign that the city was slowly waking up. Everyone seemed caught up in their own lives, driven out of their homes in search of something that might give meaning to those endless days.

Not her.

There was nothing out there important enough to persuade her to tear herself away from the warmth of her bed. And yet, there she was. Standing in her threadbare fleece pyjamas, dreading the icy torture that awaited her the moment she stepped outside.

I’ll call the office and say I’m sick… Lilia thought, rubbing her hands over the rough surface of her pyjamas. Just a few steps away, the bed seemed to be calling her, inviting her to sink into its freshly laundered sheets and the warmth of the blankets.

Surely they can survive one day without me!

Suddenly, an insistent, unbelievably irritating sound jolted her out of her daydream. With a sigh, Lilia grabbed the phone lying nearby, almost tempted to switch off the infernal device and crawl back under the covers. Just a few years earlier, she would have done it without a second thought.

The shadow of a bitter smile crossed her face. No, she wasn’t a girl anymore. She hated herself for it, but it seemed that, in the end, even she had become an adult.

Reluctantly, she lowered her eyes to the screen.

Annual meeting with the boss and the marketing team — 9:00 a.m.

The world seemed to collapse around her as the notification on her calendar app pulsed insistently at the back of her eyes. Of all the possible days, she thought, it had to be today!

Lilia tossed the phone onto a pile of clothes still waiting to be put away and steeled herself. Somehow, one way or another, she would survive once again.

After putting the moka pot on the stove, she went into the bedroom and approached the large built-in wardrobe. She opened the doors with exaggerated, theatrical slowness, as though every minute she wasted might somehow put off the pressures of life, blurred on the other side of the window.

“And what am I supposed to wear now?” Lilia murmured, glumly scanning the inside of the wardrobe. Hanging up and folded in stacks were endless rows of jackets, sweaters and heavy garments of every kind and shape. She ran a hand over a flannel shirt that looked deliciously cosy, perfect for a day like this.

This one goes in the “maybe” pile.

Then she grabbed a pair of black corduroy trousers. She shuddered and immediately put them back.
No. Absolutely not…

She surveyed her entire wardrobe. Tweed dresses that would itch for hours, chunky cable-knit sweaters better suited to climbing a mountain, improbable crew necks and pretentious waistcoats. She even considered putting on a crumpled thermal top which, for a moment, seemed like the most sensible way to avoid freezing to death.

She mentally ran through all the possible combinations. She was trying to work out which outfit might be convincing enough for such an important meeting, but she still couldn’t make up her mind. It was as though a piece were missing from this fabric puzzle: an apparently insignificant detail that kept eluding her.

Then something caught her attention.

A strong, sensual masculine scent, one she knew by heart.

His. There was no doubt about it.

Even though more than two years had passed, His scent still lingered in her wardrobe and in her memory. Or perhaps she was the one stubbornly refusing to let him go.
It lasted only a moment—the time it took to catch her breath after what had felt like an eternity underwater. And then she saw it.

In a corner, hidden in the shadows behind a pile of old clothes she hadn’t worn in who knew how long, lay a dark cashmere sweater. Its colours belonged to autumn, and to a time in her life that would never return.

She quickly pushed the other clothes aside and let her hands glide over the fabric, her fingers tracing its delicate, harmonious lines. It felt exactly as she remembered. So soft, such a light touch, that she could almost feel the skin of the man who had given her so much. Who had given her everything.
It was light—so light it seemed impossible that it could keep anyone warm. Without thinking, she pulled it on over her pyjamas. It was enormous, at least four sizes too big. The sleeves slipped past her fingertips, and the neckline rested softly against her cheek, right where
He used to lay his face in the morning, still half asleep.
The fabric settled around her shoulders, and an unfamiliar calm washed over her—the kind of calm only His strong, reassuring arms had ever been able to give her. Without hurry, without ever asking for anything in return.
For a moment, she could no longer tell whether she was touching the cashmere or the memory of something that had never stopped hurting. She closed her eyes and stopped asking herself, surrendering to the pleasure that was enveloping her completely, giving her a warmth she had denied herself for far too long.

The gurgle of coffee bubbling up in the moka pot brought her back to the grey light of reality.
Lilia opened her eyes. Her hands had stopped trembling. The shivers that had accompanied her since waking had vanished, dissolved somewhere in the folds of a sweater far too big for a soul so small.
She smiled. This time, for real.
In that house, out there beyond the window, everywhere in the world, He had given her everything, only to take it all back. To steal it from her.
But not this, Lilia thought, wrapping her arms around herself in a solitary embrace, savouring the feel of cashmere against her skin.

Not this.
On that late-autumn morning, while the rain fell outside, she no longer felt cold.