Retirement did not arrive suddenly. It settled, like dust on a windowsill.

I left Bishopsgate on the first of July. The station was quiet that morning. A few handshakes. A few words. Nothing theatrical. I had never encouraged ceremony. I boarded the train to Woodford as I had done countless times before — only this time, I did not carry my notebook.

Rolls House welcomed me with a kind of stillness I had not known in years. The hedges had grown fuller. The ivy had crept further up the brick. The study was as I had left it — orderly, untouched, waiting.

The days that followed were simple. I rose early, walked the grounds, read in the study, and took my meals alone. I kept the fire laid, even in summer. I found comfort in routine, though the routine had changed.

I did not miss the work. I missed the structure. The rhythm of reports, the cadence of duty. But I did not regret my departure. Thirty years was enough.

Visitors were few. Bond came once, in August. We spoke of nothing urgent. Matthews wrote, but did not visit. Palmer sent a note — brief, respectful, and appreciated.

By October, I had settled into the rhythm of solitude. The house had become a companion. Its silence was not empty. It was earned.

I believed, then, that my service had ended. That my duty was complete.

I was mistaken.