The autumn light was different from the spring light — heavier, golden, casting long shadows across the cottage floor. It was the light of ending, of things ripening and letting go. The oak in the garden had turned brown and crisp, its leaves tapping against the windowpane whenever the wind moved through, a dry, skeletal sound that had become, over the past year, the soundtrack of our mornings.
I woke at six, as I always did now. The alarm was unnecessary; my body had learned the rhythm of care the way it once learned the rhythm of danger. The night had been restless. Marcus woke three times, confused by the shadows, asking for his mother, asking for the gate. I soothed him each time, holding his hand until his breathing slowed and the fear receded from his clouded eyes. He was seventy-si
