I read, eat, and—after years and years of sunset—the day ends. In the cool cotton I find a sort of dreamy calm, the perfect clarity of solitude. I realise I don’t really care if Scipio died of mortal agency; that is, I care because he reminds me of my son. But I was not brought here to avenge or to reveal. I was brought here for something else altogether, and that something has not diminished in its urgency.