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The bed is a borrowed raft, adrift in the empty flat. FunkyPlaid and Zen and I are left, cosy and drowsy in each other’s company. Strange how it even smells emptier. I am thinking of the other leave-taking in this matched set, and how melancholy I felt. This way feels bittersweet as well, for all we are leaving behind, but there is undeniable relief woven through it: we accomplished what we set out to do. (And more. And less. And so we’ll return.)
Zen has already moved on. The raft was always just a bed to her, and her fireplace is waiting.
Writing from: a still-furnished bedroom in Edinburgh. Listening to: the slow ping of the radiator.