It was the changing light, not his hunger, that first alerted to the lateness of the hour, although with his hyperfocus now broken, he was suddenly acutely aware of how little he had eaten that day. Every part of his body — completely unnoticed just two seconds before — now vied for his attention. He felt the way his shoulders hunched up against the early evening chill; the way his flannel shirt — wet with now-cooling sweat — clung to his skin; the stiffness in his knees as he straightened his legs after crouching motionless in the same hunched position for… how long had he been there? Three hours? Four? Judging by the angle of the shafts of sunlight slicing between the trees at the forest’s edge, he reckoned it might even be closer to five. The last of the day seemed to hang all around him. Dust motes swirled in the places where the light pooled, languid and golden, as dusk waited in the shadows and the earth settled softly around his feet.

Perhaps he should have gone further in, but it was too late to change his mind now. Winnie would be wondering where he’d got to, and the last thing he needed was another well-meaning neighbour sticking their oar in. Wiping his mud-caked hands on the back of his jeans, he stooped to gather up his tools, flicking his wrist as he straightened up again to check his watch. It was dead, but he already knew that; it had actually died on the way out here. He shook his head, shrugging off the memory that tugged at the corners of his lips. What creatures of habit we humans are.

The wind had begun to pick up now, and the trees sighed and shook. The sound cascaded down, over and around him, threatening to swallow him whole. He closed his eyes and fought the urge to run, forcing himself instead to stay where he was, just for a moment longer, feeling the ground under his feet, the cool air on his skin, in his lungs, counting three things he could hear, two things he could smell, one thing he could feel. One warm, wet, slightly sticky thing.

He opened his eyes and looked down at the creature nuzzling his palm, his face a mix of love and revulsion, withdrawing his hand to wipe it once again on his already filthy jeans. Gladys snorted happily and licked her lips, catching one side of her muzzle under her bottom right canine, and tilted her head to one side slightly, fixing with a vacant, lop-sided smile. The laugh that escaped his lips surprised both of them — breaking several hours of silence and sending a nearby bird flapping desperately from its perch, high up in one of the ancient beech trees. The sound was gone immediately but the memory of it lingered – glaring and conspicuous – like a bright red plastic cup in a field of delicate wildflowers. He glared at Gladys, briefly, delusionally convinced she’d done it on purpose, then shook the anger off, guiltily. He’d stayed here too long.

As they cleared the forest’s edge, looked back over his shoulder, looking for a tree or a landmark he could use to find his way back here, if he needed to. In the deepening dark, everything looked the same. Gladys leaned solidly against his leg, shivering slightly, and he reached down to caress the velvety softness of her ear. It was an action which, from the outside, might have looked as though it was intended to reassure. In reality, it was as much for his benefit as it was hers. He could feel that lump in his throat again, and he wondered why he was still fighting the tears. Why now, here, so far away from everyone and everything, was he still so afraid to cry? It wasn’t as though anyone would know. Gladys would certainly never tell anyone, and there wasn’t exactly anyone else around. But if he hadn’t cried then, in the middle of the night, on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, when the world had seemed to literally shatter around him, what fucking right did he have to cry now? It was over.

They set off along the edge of the forest, staying close to the tree line, where they could duck inside and take cover if they needed to. Gladys trotted, light-footed and clumsy, ahead of , stopping occasionally to sniff, and nearly tripping him up so many times he had no choice but to put her on the lead. He avoided her doleful stare as they traipsed solemnly through the tall, wet grass — his mind still lingering at the forest’s edge, and that little pile of earth, even as his body moved further away.

The wind was fiercer out here and ’s shirt, although dry now, at least, was nowhere near thick enough to protect him from the vicious gusts that penetrated the fabric, making him shiver and stamp his feet with the cold. He wished he’d brought a sweater. Fishing around in the front pocket of his rucksack for something to stave off the hunger pangs, he found two old boiled sweets. They’d been in there for so long that the wrappers had worked loose, and each sweet now sported a sticky line of lint where the sugar had been exposed, but it was this, or nothing. The walk home would take another hour, at least. He popped the first sweet in his mouth, trying not to think about how many unsavoury things it had shared the bag with, and almost immediately felt better. He decided now would be the perfect time to finally achieve his life-long goal of sucking a sweet until it completely disappeared and, in an effort to distract himself from the overwhelming urge to chew, he thought about Winnie.

Things had been especially difficult over the last few weeks. He’d been aware of her slow decline for a long time, but it had seemed to gather speed since he came back. Perhaps his proximity was simply making it more obvious, but she seemed to drift further and further away from him by the day. There were times where she was lucid, and on those days she would look at him like she recognised him; like she knew him, really knew him. And it would fill him with a shame and rage unlike any he’d ever felt — flimsy surface cover for a deep, desperate, lonely sadness. Because she didn’t know him. Not really. She never had.

But as painful as those days were, they were fleeting. Most of the time, was simply Winnie’s live-in carer. She loved him like the son she never had, and — aside from swallowing down that lump in his throat every time she complained that her daughter never visited her — he was happy with this level of detachment. It was better this way. Easier for everyone involved.

couldn’t remember exactly when he knew. Whenever he’d talked to others with similar experiences to his — usually in quick, furtive whispers, as though speaking it aloud would somehow scare it away — they always seemed to talk about it in terms of revelation; some key moment, when everything had suddenly fallen into place. It hadn’t been like that for . But then again, nothing had been like that for . He often felt as though he was watching his life from the sidelines; things that felt impossible seemed easy for everyone else. Of course his sense of identity was a little bit broken. Why wouldn’t it be? Everything else was.

So no big moment. No life-changing event. In the end, had sort of drifted into his new identity, almost by accident, when he went to university. Although he hadn’t planned it that way, the fact that it had coincided with Winnie’s diagnosis had worked in ’s favour. He still felt guilty sometimes — like he’d taken something from her — but he told himself he was protecting her. From what, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps it wasn’t Winnie he was protecting.

Somewhere in the forest to his right, an owl hooted, and realised with surprise that the sweet he’d been sucking was now almost gone. Only a tiny sliver remained, delicately following the central contour of his tongue. He grinned to himself. This was a new personal best. As he slowly massaged the remainder against the roof of his mouth, he fished around in his pocket for the second.

Werther’s Originals had always been Winnie’s favourite. On the day he came home, he’d brought her a bag. He felt a twinge of sadness, swallowed down that lump again, as he remembered standing on the doorstep that day, staring into a face that just seemed to stare straight through him. He’d pushed the bag into her hands — her bewildered eyes darting from his, to the sweets, and back again, arthritic fingers grasping for the connection that she knew was there, somewhere — and waited for her to speak. In the end, it was him who broke the silence, walking into the kitchen and putting the kettle on, making her a cup of tea, just how she liked it. If she was confused by the fact that this strange man seemed to know where everything was, she didn’t show it. She sat there, in her favourite chair, eyeing him with a mix of curiosity and hesitation. had had to fight the urge to put his head in her lap.

Gladys gave a little grunt next to him, and he ruffled her ears in response. The silly old thing had been beside herself with excitement that day, jumping up to put her big paws on his chest and lick his chin, wagging her tail so hard her whole body swayed from side to side. Everything had changed, and nothing had changed. Gladys had always known who he was.

hadn’t wanted to come home. Not really. Couldn’t face the guilt. The grief. The knowing looks from the neighbours. But when he got the news, he hadn’t known where else to go. It was Winnie who’d put plasters on his scraped knees. It was Winnie’s kindness he sought when trying to make sense of the cruel words another child had thrown at him. It was Winnie’s bed he had crept into when the nightmares chased him out of his. But this was a hurt Winnie couldn’t heal.

It was only a handful of times. Piss drunk in some dive bar, chasing oblivion. He’d wake up the next morning bruised and sore. Trying to fill in the gaping holes in his memory and drawing even more blanks. And then, that cold November morning, in the petrol station toilet, he realised he’d really fucked up.

He’d come home to try and run away from it. But you can’t outrun something that’s inside you. And with each passing week, his body started to betray him. His chest ached. His limbs felt heavy. He would try to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Winnie seemed to notice, too. Sometimes, when the light hit his face in a certain way, she would look at him, and her eyes would track slowly down his body. He wanted to tell her. To crumple into her like he always had. But how could he? What words could he find for this?

He began instead to notice when her moods shifted, to track the time of day when she would be the most observant, the most inquisitive, so he could make sure he wasn’t there. He’d be meeting a friend. Or running some errands. Checking his watch became a reflexive response to every sound, every transition, every opening door.

But it wasn’t just Winnie he was avoiding. He avoided every mirror, every reflective surface, every place where he might be forced to meet himself. He avoided the dark, sleeping with every light on, his bed full of the soft toys Winnie had held onto all these years. He shuddered now as he looked around, taking in the dark forest on his right and a wide, open field to his left, where he could still just about see a reddish glow on the horizon; the dying embers of a fire that had almost taken everything from him as he watched, desperate, but completely unable, to put it out.

In the end, the decision had been made for him, late in the night on Christmas Eve, on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, as Winnie slept. Nothing he could have done to change it. Nothing anyone could have done. He’d quietly cleaned away the blood, washing his clothes by hand in the sink. He’d even remembered to use cold water, because hot water seals the blood stain into the fabric. Winnie had taught him that, back when his body had betrayed him the first time.

As they reached the edge of the field, stopped. He thought of walking the other way, away from the village. Away from Winnie. He thought of the little mound of earth. Of the tiny pair of socks he’d bought the other day — when he had thought, for the briefest of moments, that maybe it would be OK — now buried, alongside the white towel that wouldn’t come clean, somewhere in the forest.

He tugged the lead and Gladys reluctantly stood up, staring up at him reproachfully. He had wanted to say something, crouching there in the dirt, but the hours had passed and the words wouldn’t come. Now, as they walked slowly towards the village, he realised what it was that he’d wanted to say.

He’d wanted to say he was sorry.

He swallowed, but the lump was still there.