The next day arrives early for me. I unwrap myself from the sheets, sit and pause for a moment on the side of the bed, adjusting to the faded blueish hints of sunrise sneaking out from the top of the dark, thick curtains. I wander over and draw them open quietly. There is no sound here.

I slip my new trainers on without socks, and throw on yesterday’s clothes to venture out. To the south is a congregation of tree stumps, remnants of the forest hurriedly chopped to help with the rebuilding. Golden crests line each stump: chicken-of-the-woods grown for food, of the kind the old woman had served for us last night, albeit disguised in a thick carbonara. I set myself down on the front step and savour the dew.