June arrived and I had been in Sydney for a year. I did not mark this with any ceremony. No toast, no acknowledgment, no deliberate reflection on the anniversary of it. I noticed the date the way you noticed dates that carried weight — with a quiet internal recognition and then the deliberate choice to let the day be what it was, which was a Tuesday, which meant the Newtown kitchen and the morning prep and the specific ordinary work of a life that had found its shape. One year. I was still here. --- Patrick noticed. He came into the kitchen on the Tuesday of the anniversary and stood at the counter watching me work for a moment and then said, without preamble: "A year." "Yes," I said. "How does it feel?" I thought about it. "Like longer," I said. "And like less time than I needed." He absorbed this. "How much more time do you need?" he said. I looked at the dough in front of me. "I don't know yet," I said honestly. "But I think I'll know when I know." He nodded. "The j
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