The morning light in the cottage was different from the light in the Hampstead house. It was lower, softer, filtered through the smaller windows that looked out onto the neat, enclosed garden. There were no high ceilings to catch the dust, no grand staircases to echo the sound of footsteps. The silence here was intimate, contained. It was a house for the end of things, for the slowing down of a life that had once been vast and loud.
I woke at six, as I always did. The alarm was unnecessary; my body had learned the rhythm of care. The night had been restless. Marcus had woken twice, confused by the shadows in the corner of the room, asking for his mother, asking for the gate. I had soothed him both times, holding his hand until his breathing slowed, until the fear receded from his cloudy e
