Four minutes. I know it was four because the call log says 23:11 and the photograph of the jumper says 23:07 and I moved that jumper at about quarter past.
And in those four minutes I ran through what a woman of thirty-eight who I have known since 2011 could possibly be carrying in a suitcase that she did not want me to see, and every single thing I came up with was about her.
Money. A man. Something at work.
Not one of them was about me, and the whole of it was about me, and it had been for two years.
What Freya actually did.
She did not get rid of them.
That is the entire thing and it took me about four days to understand what it meant.
Eleven letters came to my house between the September of 2023 and the August of 2025. She collected every one of them, because she has a key and because she has always done my post and because I never once asked her to stop.
