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Winter always reveals the architecture of things. In Venice, it moves slowly through the canals, turning water to steel and stone to ash. The light arrives thin and early, barely touching the palazzi before withdrawing again. Conversations are held in coats and gloves. Footsteps echo longer. The city becomes deliberate. London carries winter differently. Rain instead of frost. Pavement instead of water. The Thames the same muted grey as the sky above it. Meetings run longer.

There is a particular peace that comes with writing a novel. It is solitary work, quiet work, the kind that unfolds in long hours and half-finished cups of tea. The world shrinks to a room, a screen, and the voices of characters who slowly begin to speak with more confidence than their author. In that space everything feels possible. Writing has always been one of the few places where my mind settles. I have lived with manic depression for all of my adult life, and the page h