In the days that follow, he begins to remember things about Moushumi, images that come to him without warning while he is sitting at his desk at work, or during a meeting, or drifting off to sleep, or standing in the mornings under the shower. They are scenes he has carried within him, buried but intact, scenes he has never thought about or had reason to conjure up until now.

Being a writer means taking the leap from listening to saying 'Listen to me'.

Somehow, bad news, however ridden with static, however filled with echoes, always manages to be conveyed.

A lot of my upbringing was about denying or fretting or evading.

She has the gift of accepting her life.

Isolation offered its own form of companionship

He tries to peel the image from the sticky yellow backing, to show her the next time he sees her, but it clings stubbornly, refusing to detach cleanly from the past.