The winter cold had settled into the bones of the cottage — a damp cold that crept through the double-glazing and pooled in the corners the heating never quite reached. I woke at six, as I always did now. The alarm was unnecessary; my body had learned the rhythm of his medication schedule the way it once learned the rhythm of danger. The night had been restless. Marcus woke twice, confused by the shadows in the corner of the room, asking for his mother, asking for the gate. I soothed him both times, holding his hand until his breathing slowed and the fear receded from his clouded eyes. He was seventy-six. The dementia wasn't a cliff — it was a slope, gradual, the sharp edges of his mind wearing down like a coastline under years of tide.
I slipped out of bed, the floorboards cold under my
