Daniel had thought death would smell like blood and loneliness and antiseptic. He never thought it would smell like flock. That it would be so warm, here with this impossible version of Max who is holding him close and whose breath ruffles Daniel’s hair.

Daniel clings to Max’s shirt, finds his voice.

“Can I rest now,” he rasps. He wants permission to... See more

Daniel’s living room carpet is a sanguine canvas. Deep, gouache crimson seeping into watercolour pink. Vivid, crushed oil-painted feathers fading into pastel.