This was where it all ended. It feels more real now than when the paramedic told me he was very sorry for my troubles. Or when the priest prayed over Joe’s body, or when the doctor made it all official.

That had been much less of a momentous declaration than it should have been. A life over, acknowledged with a shake of a head and a scrawled signature on some paper.

My lungs struggle to suck in the stale air of the room and I feel a weight of something akin to grief hit me directly in the centre of my chest for the first time. It’s a physical sensation that I have not expected. It makes me feel as unsettled as Ciara’s mood swings.

I half walk, half stumble to the bed, where I sit down and close my eyes, trying to find my breath.

I feel the mattress dip beside me. Ciara is sitting down.

‘It’s so strange, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘After all these years …’

Her words hang in the air. I don’t know what to say to her. How to respond.

Slowly, as my breathing returns to normal, I open my eyes. The room looks different in the light. Dated. I can’t remember the last time he had the painters in here. If ever. There’s a fine layer of dust on the chest of drawers. The mirror on the front of the wardrobe is smeared and smudged. Should I have cleaned for him? Or cleaned more? Should Ciara have?

An indentation in the shape of his head still exists on the pillow his head was resting on. The sheets are pulled back. His bedside table is less dusty, but it is cluttered. A glass of water, half empty, a straw poking from the top of it. A couple of boxes of tablets, which I lift and set on the chest of drawers. I’ll put them in a plastic bag shortly. Some loose change and a box of tissues. Some crumpled and discarded. His reading glasses, unfolded, the arms pointing upwards. A packet of Werther’s Original, three discarded wrappers from the sweets he had eaten. I pick up the detritus, drop it in the bin. I open the drawer on his bedside locker and slip the sweets and the change in. I’m not sure why I do this. He won’t be coming back for them later. A leather-bound diary, burgundy, and a pen are among the scarce contents of his drawer.

I feel wrong doing it, but not wrong enough to stop. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I open the diary, my heart contracting as I see the familiar loops and swirls of his handwriting. It’s this year’s diary. There aren’t that many entries completed, but I see that he has dutifully filled in his contact information.

‘What’s that?’ Ciara asks from across the room.

‘His diary,’ I say.

‘Well, I don’t think you should be looking at it,’ she says.

The harsh tone is back in her voice. I’m more familiar with this version of Ciara than with the Ciara who held my hand walking up the stairs.