I suddenly realised why he was writing on the walls. Because our life is not like a book with a beginning and an end. Life is not linear like a road, it is tangled like a cobweb: the past is changed by memory, the future by actions, our present is made by strangers. Connections stretched like arcing missiles between characters and life flowed through them as if coursing along an intravenous line and the strands vibrated with music. We are all, after all, connected, even if we have never met.

I wanted to add my own memories to the wall, something about you or maybe Dad’s funeral. Although maybe he had long before written all there was to write. I scoured the flat for a marker, but I couldn’t find one anywhere. Not hidden away in any corner, or on the windowsill, or in my room. Perhaps they had been buried along with Dad.

I flung open all the windows. At long last, I didn’t need to worry about catching a cold. Smoky air rushed into the room, pushing out the last remnants of Dad. In summer, it always smelled of flowers, even during the battles. Now, the whiff of fire was as inescapable as the unending roars of the shelling. I fetched Dad’s jacket from the coat rack and threw it over my shoulders. It smelled of smoke. Shivering with cold and anxiety, I stood at the window greedily sucking in the air. I had to start packing. And I knew that once I started, I would never stop. If I left, I would never come back.

In my room, I repeatedly rearranged my clothes. I was trying to work out how I would manage to fit in our stash of water with all those clothes in there. And then I suddenly laughed at that stupidly obsolete concern. But there were the books to think of. Mum’s books. They couldn’t be left behind. The looters would surely steal everything once I left. I held up my white cotton summer shirt, it still retained a hint of perfume. My favourite: Chloe.

I placed the shirt on the pillow and buried my face in it. I dreamt of a life that smelled like this. A real life.