Once the final step was taken, there was nothing left to do but remain.

I realised I would never leave Rolls House again. Not for the city. Not for the countryside. Not even for the village. My world contracted to the perimeter of the estate, and I accepted it.

Supplies were delivered once a fortnight by arrangement with a grocer in Woodford. Payment was made in advance, in cash, under a name that was not mine. The parcels were left at the gate. I collected them after dusk.

I kept no staff. I needed no company. The house was large, but not unmanageable. I cleaned what I used. I closed the rooms I did not. The study, the kitchen, the bedroom, the cellar — these were sufficient.

My days were structured. I rose early. I walked the grounds. I read. I wrote. I maintained the house. I kept the fire laid and the pantry stocked.

I did not read the newspapers. I did not follow the world. I had removed myself from it, and it from me.

I received no visitors. I sent no letters. I answered no knocks.

The silence was not oppressive. It was earned.

I had done what was necessary. I had preserved the force. I had sealed the wound. I had erased the truth.

And now, I lived with it.