self aion. For nearly sixty years I y on t exist. I o s and bats. I o follos of quills as te love letters, rains ransported me across sea and sand; centuries and continents  my bidding. I y and nessed ty of t so lo t  my breatheir dreams.

    ‘My study ters ing to be ten. Imaginary people, anxious for a life,  my sleeve, crying, ’Me next! Go on! My turn!‘ I o select. And once I  for ten montil I come to tory, and tarts up again.

    ‘And every so often, ting years, I ed my  ter, or in t pause for t after a deatimes just searc eady green-eyed gaze. I knoly o see ime so catcen so speak to me, but for decades soo far ao be  my gaze and pretend I  seen , I taken in.

    ‘People ’s because of arted a nees after finis, it is because to look up from my desk ing her eye.

    ‘tly ting in tudy  I ten, ter, tle in my tention  t nearer ing.

    ‘t of my final book. I e t sentence, placed t full stop. I kne ’s just t. ’It old  oo long ago, I en.‘ tions.

    ‘’But I  forgotten,‘ sable w. I do remember.“

    t vibration in till. I turned from my stargazing to Miss inter. aring at a spot in t t very moment seeing the copper hair.

    ‘the girl is you.“

    ‘Me?“ Miss inter’s eyes turned slo cion. ”No, s me. Sated. ”So be. t cing a long, long time ago.

    o an end t of thing.“

    ‘But your career… tories…“

    ‘s. It fills a void.“

    t in silence and cime to time Miss inter rubbed absently at her palm.

    ‘Your essay on Jules and Edmond Landier,