It was the cold that drove his hands into his pockets, where his fingers brushed against paper. Soft between index and thumb, a remnant from the previous winter when the jacket had last been pulled from its hook. He pulled it out, crumpled and shapeless, from his pocket and unraveled it carefully, fingers stiff with cold.

They sent me here, and now I am about to receive their last goodbye. I have been given final instructions which I plan to carry out as efficiently as possible. Twenty-one Stark days ago (71.40 days on Earth, rounded to two decimal places), I first signalled that there was something wrong with me.

I often wonder what I would have said if I could have gone back to that moment. Ripped the veil between past and present to tell her exactly how right she was about me. I would start with I’m sorry. So very, very sorry. Because the truth is, there were many things I should have done and many sentences I should have said.