Within seconds, his fingers are red, numb. Pulling off his rucksack, he reaches for his pocket knife. He flicks it open, starts hacking at the snow, jabbing the hard surface with the blade, hooking dense, crystalline clumps away.
A few centimetres in he can see more of the bracelet, more of the fabric.
Pinching his fingers around the top of the bracelet, Jérémie yanks hard. He jerks backwards, the material and bracelet coming with him, together with something else.
Jérémie stares, frozen.
Bile fills the back of his throat. Dropping the knife, and the bracelet, he gags, vomiting over and over into the snow.
“I believe in memory. I believe in remembering someone you love so well that it becomes kind of like a ghost. You remember someone so hard that it feels like they’re in the next room, just around the corner, that they could walk in any minute.”