The key turns with the heavy, oiled resistance of a lock that hasn’t forgotten her. Imogen steps into the hallway, the stale London air of her flat meeting the sharp, metallic tang of Aleppo she still carries in her lungs. Moonlight cuts through the tall sash windows, illuminating dust motes that dance in the freezing quiet. She drops her kitbag. The thud is muffled by the Persian rug, but it feels loud enough to shatter the glass in the cabinets.
She moves toward the desk. It is a reflex, a homing instinct for the one place her thoughts ever made sense. The drawer is locked, but the brass key is already in her palm. Inside, she finds a stack of airmail envelopes, cream-coloured and addressed to her in a handwriting so identical to her own it makes the skin on her neck prickle. They are dated from the months she was gone. She hasn't written them.
A soft, rhythmic sound pulls her gaze to the sofa. A woman is asleep there, cocooned in Imogen’s own oatmeal merino jumper, her silhouette a mirror of the woman standing over her. The figure on the sofa shifts, an arm dropping toward the floor as the breathing rhythm abruptly hitches.
