Haven, but the possibility no longer worries me. I’m still writing for an audience of one, still bearing witness, as I’ve done since the beginning; but sometimes I wonder. Someone will read this, I’m certain of that. But my audience might not be you—or “you”—at all. It could even be the Timekeeper himself.My relief at his disappearance didn’t last longer than a single sleep cycle. Once it registered that I was alone again—more alone, if possible, than I’d been before I found him—the old heaviness dropped down on me at once. The singularity was tightening its hold, taking advantage of my discouragement; but I knew the heaviness was just a symptom.The cause of it was clear to me. I missed him.This isn’t as perverse as it sounds, Mrs. Haven. I feel no sympathy for my great-uncle, let alone love. He’s a sociopath, a criminal, a monster—I have no doubt of that. But I was possessed of two ambitions before being banished to this place: (1) to arrive at a reckoning of my family’s crimes, by finishing this history; and (2) to reckon with them, perhaps even atone for them, by whatever sad, belated methods I could find.
