Later, she would delete most of them. But one—the one by the window—she would keep. A postcard from a day when she did nothing but be exactly where she was. Dee, in the light. The world, for a moment, perfectly still.

She fetched her small digital camera from her bag—an old model, nothing fancy. She liked its mechanical click, its lack of pretension. Back in the patch of light, she placed the camera on a low stack of books, aimed roughly at where she sat. She set the self-timer.

The late afternoon light slanted through the tall windows of the old seaside cottage, painting long, soft rectangles across the worn wooden floor. Dust motes danced in the beams, lazy and slow. Outside, the North Sea was a sheet of hammered pewter, calm after a morning of restless wind.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. The world resolved: the faded floral wallpaper, a stack of well-read paperbacks, a single wildflower in a jam jar on the sill. Simple. Honest.

She moved then, shifting onto her side, propping her head on her hand. The linen shirt slipped off one shoulder. She felt the cool floor against her ribs, the warm light on her back. Another timer. Another click.