I left him.

I left him alone in that house.

I didn’t know what I was doing. I still don’t. I can’t come to terms with what I’ve done. That’s part of the reason I’m writing this book: to try to make sense of it all. I’ve spent years telling stories, but this was the only one that really mattered, and I’ve never had the courage to tell it publicly because it’s too raw. It still causes great pain, and all my failings as a father are laid bare. I want to hug my boy. I want to make him feel better, but I can’t. And that’s on me.

Me, and no one else.

I return to the house every year. I make the trip in summer when the Peak District is at its most beautiful. I travel the familiar track to the cottage we once called home, and wander through the untouched memorial to a happy life. I don’t think anyone lived here after Elliot left, and the place is damp and imbued with a stillness of abandonment that crushes me every time I cross the threshold. The doors are bowed and flaking, the windows long broken, the frames woodwormed and splintered.

The roof has been pockmarked by the relentless march of time, and here and there the cracked slate floor is contoured by the residue of water puddles. I’m not sure how much longer the old place will withstand the elements, but where others might see a ruin, memory takes me beyond the decay and fills my eyes with glistening images of a husband and wife, happy together. Their joy at a child. The bubbling sounds of family life.

Years ago, I found an aluminium box concealed in the cubby behind the loose brick beside the fireplace in the sitting room. A trove left by Elliot, who was always obsessed with secrets. I remember showing him the cubby in happier times, before our lives were blighted by misery. I still recall how his eyes lit up when I said it would be a good place to hide pirate treasure or the clandestine messages of a spy. He always had such a wonderful imagination.

I can’t remember what prompted me to look behind the loose brick all those years later. A desire to make physical contact with that moment, perhaps? To be linked to my son, no matter how tenuously? To relive a memory? My reward was a connection more real and haunting than I could have ever imagined.

I found letters Elliot had written to me.

I remember standing in the ruined room, hearing no sound, sensing nothing, as though time itself had stopped. I devoured them, pausing only to compose myself when some handwritten phrase broke me. Some of the letters are so raw I have only been able to read them once. Others I revisit often. This is one of my favourites, for reasons I hope will become clear.

Dear Dad,

Do you remember when you showed me this little pirate’s hollow? You told me Jack Sparrow might hide treasure there. Or Alex Rider some top-secret plans. I remember that day. I hope you do too. I pray you find these. I like to think of you standing by the fireplace reading my words. These scrawled symbols on the page link our minds. It doesn’t matter how many years have passed; the moment of your reading will be tied to the moment of my writing and through these words we can be together again. They tell part of my story, but you’ll have to dig deeper if you want the whole truth.