Elin's POV

The scarf.

I freeze mid-bite, pasta halfway to my mouth. My hand trembles, fork clattering against the plate.

That gray-blue scarf wrapped around Aaron's neck when he turned to look at me—I knitted that. Hours of work, fingers cramping, determined to make it perfect for his twenty-sixth birthday. He'd smiled when I gave it to him, soft and genuine, and kissed my forehead like I'd handed him the world.

Clara threw it out. She told me he called it garbage, trash that annoyed him. I ...