New... Yes. The coat was new.
“You’ll wear your new suit won’t you Tom?”
“No. I’m saving it.”
“But she’s only thirteen!”
At sixteen, Tom’s god-daughter was beautiful. At nineteen she was sick. At twenty-one she was dead and Tom wore the suit to her funeral.
Alice’s father gave Tom a parcel tied with ribbon afterwards; all the letters he’d written to his god-daughter through the years: “She’d want you to have them.” But Tom couldn’t look. He clutched them tight in fists and stuffed his hands into his pockets.
Then he threw the suit away.