Graeme Macrae Burnet

A few sickly trees punctuated the pavement. The last November leaves clung sadly to the branches, as if they knew their fate but had not yet accepted it.

‘Dad’ has always struck me as dreadfully plebeian, a flat grey syllable in the mouth. ‘Father’ is excessively formal when spoken; and the idea of addressing him by his Christian name is simply vulgar. We are not, thank heavens, all Americans yet.

There was a Veronica-sized void in the world. As well as her physical presence, the contents of her mind were gone. The question I had been about to ask would never be answered. Everything she had learned, the memories she had accumulated, her future thoughts and actions had all been snuffed out. The world was diminished by her non-existence.