We left the house just after one. The sun was high, the hedgerows thick with summer. Swift carried a satchel. I carried nothing. The fire had done its work. The archive was gone. All that remained was the final act — to retrieve the nine missing pieces.

We spoke little as we walked. There was no need. The silence between us was no longer guarded. It was companionable.

Half a mile from the station, the road narrowed. A cart approached from the bend — fast, too fast for the turn. The driver shouted. The horse reared. The wheel caught the edge of the ditch.

I remember the sound — wood splintering, hooves striking stone, the sudden lurch of the world tipping sideways. Then nothing.

When I woke, I was lying in a bed I did not recognise. A woman sat beside me — middle-aged, starched apron, eyes kind but firm. “You’re at Rolls House,” she said. “You’ve been brought home.”

I tried to speak. My throat was dry. My ribs protested with every breath. My leg was bound.

I turned my head slightly. “My friend?” I whispered.

She hesitated. “He was taken to the Jubilee Hospital in Woodford. That’s all I know.”

A nurse arrived the next day — a quiet woman named Mrs. Elkins. She moved into the east bedroom and kept to a quiet, unwavering routine.

I remained in the bedroom, propped against pillows, staring at the ceiling.

I cannot begin to describe the depth of the loss that settled into my soul. I thought, at last, I had found someone I could confide in. After twelve years of solitude, it had seemed I might not have to go through it alone after all.

Throughout the six weeks of my convalescence, I longed to hear news about Swift. I never heard from him again.

It was the greatest loss I have ever suffered — greater even than the loss of my identity.