Cyrus Hargrave

London, winter of 1991. The city woke to a biting cold that seeped right into your bones. Frost-covered

**Diary Entry** In a city where hurried buildings jostled for space beneath the grey sky, where impatient

In the deepest, most forgotten corner of the municipal animal shelter, where even the flickering fluorescent

Theresa was neatly folding the brand-new tea towelssoft linen ones with little rosebudswhen her phone buzzed.

**Diary Entry 12th June** James and I had been married for seven years. From the day we said our vows

I stepped out into the rain with Michael in my arms, my feet slipping on the slick concrete steps of

Emily stepped back into the presidential suite with her heart in her throat. Everything felt familiar

Everyone fell silent when, among the wedding guests, twelve tall men in full naval dress uniform appeared.

The dream unfolded like this: Under a moss-slick bridge in Derbyshire, where the River Derwent whispered

Adrian lingered on old Edwards words for a long time. “You need a woman in the house.”