It has been nearly twelve years since I withdrew from public life.

This account was written slowly, deliberately, over the course of those years. It was not composed for publication, nor for posterity. It was written for myself — to clarify, to remember, and to endure.

I completed the final chapter last month. Since then, I have read it through twice. I do not intend to read it again.

Yesterday, I received word of the death of Dr Thomas Bond. He leapt from a third-floor window at The Sanctuary. The papers say he had been ill. That he had been using morphine. That he had grown despondent.

He was my friend. He was one of the few who ever truly understood the weight of silence.

I allowed that friendship to cool. I did so for his protection. I do not know whether he ever suspected the full truth. I do not know whether he would have forgiven me if he had.

I mourn him quietly.

This house has held me for over a decade. It has kept me warm. It has kept me hidden. It has kept me honest.

I do not know whether this record will ever be found. I do not know whether it should be.

But I leave it here, in the quiet, as a final act of loyalty.