Some stories bring you home.

The key was where it had always been: under the blue pot with nothing growing in it. Mara turned it once, then again, waiting for the familiar resistance. The door gave way so easily that she stumbled into the hall.

Somebody had opened the windows. Salt moved through the house like a person who knew the rooms. On the table, beneath the brass lamp, stood a cup with a ring of tea dried halfway down its side. Her mother had always left a little. A private promise to come back.

Mara set down her bag. She had rehearsed this arrival on the train, arranging the objects of the house in her mind so that none could surprise her. Coat hooks. Stair carpet. The photograph of the bay before the harbour wall. She had forgotten the sound of the clock.

It was still running. That was the first thing she would remember later: not grief, not relief, but annoyance that somebody had thought to wind it.

On the kitchen window there was a folded piece of paper held in place by a stone. The stone was grey, veined with white, small enough to fit in a child’s closed hand. She knew it before she read the note.

If you have come this far, her mother had written, go a little further.