Since Dawn of Time’s first chilly mists were devoured by a greedy, rampant Orange I have been collecting the apt recollections of those poor wretched souls about to lose their minds to the unforgiving void.  By preserving such memories I ensure that upon departure at least a snippet of the mort being is not lost to the nothingness.

Mostly, there is little of note to gather up. Just random details of new-borns, love lost, torn petticoats and fine sand between toes, yet every so often as I gather up such memories I unearth a golden nugget.  Such was the case with Lily. She was Parisian insofar as I was aware, of advanced years and was cursed with a wilting mind when we met. By then she had become a bedbound glorified wizened carcass in a spick and span care home within the Quartier des Invalides.

Before the war a then…