We travelled in silence. He sat opposite me on the train, notebook still in hand, though he didn’t write. I watched the hedgerows pass, the fields roll by, the sky shift from grey to gold. He watched me, now and then, but said nothing.

At Woodford Station, we disembarked. We walked the rest of the way — through the lanes, past the hedges, under the low sky. The gravel path to the house was swept, the ivy trimmed. He said nothing as we approached. He recognised it.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The air was cool. The silence, familiar.

“This way,” I said.

He followed me through the hall, past the shuttered rooms, into the study. I gestured to the chair by the desk. He sat.

I crossed to the drawer beneath the window and removed the manuscript — the memoir I had finished only weeks before.

“This,” I said, placing it gently before him, “is the full account. Everything I did. Everything I chose not to do. It’s not a defence. It’s a record.”

He looked at it, but didn’t touch it.

“I’ll leave you to read this,” I said. “While you read, I’ll get some tea. Do you take sugar?”

He nodded, once.

I left him in the study and stepped into the kitchen. The kettle hissed softly. The house remained quiet. And in the study, he began to read.