The Last Walk

# Chapter 1: Three Days After the Letter

The letter is on the desk. It has been on the desk for three days.

I have not written back. There is nothing to write back. The letter says what it says, and the road is the answer, and the road begins in an hour or less, depending on how long I sit here looking at a cup of tea I have not started drinking.

The pack is by the door. The old one, from the coast trip, canvas so patched it is more repair than original. I cleaned the buckles yesterday with a rag and a bit of oil Cob left on the bench for me without being asked. The left strap has a new stitch where the leather cracked. I did that two days ago, sitting on the kitchen floor with Bramble asleep on my foot, and I used the heavy needle, the one with the curve, and I only stabbed myself once, which is better than average.

The hat is on the table. Three patches along the cuff of the brim: sea-thrift coral, faded now to something between pink and the memory of pink. Mountain wool, soft grey, from the Stillness. Saltgrass linen, blue-green, the colour of water in a bucket at dusk. I do not remember sewing on the third patch. Thistle says I did it in the first week back from the coast and that I hummed while I did it, which sounds unlikely, but Thistle has never lied to me about anything that didn't matter.

The coat is folded on top of the hat. Three patches at the right cuff that match the hat. The road journal is in the inner pocket. I checked. I checked again twenty minutes later, because apparently fifty is the age at which you begin to verify things you verified a quarter-hour ago.