In the courtyard below, a gardener was turning the soil. Nothing appeared to be happening, and yet everything was being made ready. She watched for a long time. Perhaps, she thought, not every kind of progress announces itself.

Later, a friend arrived with two cups of tea and no advice. They sat together as the afternoon moved across the floor. There were things she could not yet explain. There were things she no longer needed to. The tea grew cold, and neither of them minded.

The room was quiet in the way only a room full of books can be. Light gathered along the edges of the shelves, touching each spine as though remembering an old friend. Outside, the day continued without asking anything of her. For once, that felt like an invitation.

She pulled out the chair beside the window. Someone had left a pencil on the table, its point worn soft from use. On a blank sheet of paper she wrote a single question: what does it mean to begin again? The question looked smaller on the page. More possible.