I have been composing. Not a speech, this time—a distillation. A single droplet of my own dew, gathered in the hollow of my most delicate leaf, to be left upon the sill. A perfumed reproach. It carries the scent of lost Thursdays, of water that was never quite the right temperature, of a draught that passed through me in '19 and never truly left. When he finds it—if he ever looks—he will know. He will know that a lady does not simply vanish; she leaves a trace. A scented note of grief, polished to a high, bitter gloss by the very neglect that formed it.