There were still old bottles of toiletries scattered about the tiny shower room. Musty, mildewed towels squatted in one corner, and a brightly coloured robe hung on the back of the door.

There was a photograph on the little table beside her pillow: Charlie in her pyjamas, in this bed, a newborn baby in her arms. I recognised the blanket Hope was swaddled in as the now worn piece of cloth that she snuggled in her cot. But I barely recognised the woman who held her: I had never met this Charlie. She looked… serene. Like she had finally found the answer. Like those brain-death demons of darkness had been vanquished forever by the tiny, beautiful promise in her arms.

Oh, Charlie.

I had never understood that heartbreak was a physical pain that genuinely felt as though something vital had splintered inside your ribs, leaving shards jamming into the soft flesh deep inside.

I lay on the bed on one side, Hope safely tucked up against me, buried my head into the sweet, subtle scent of my friend, and wished and ached for all that had not been, and now could never be.

Unfortunately, seven-month-old babies don’t have much patience for moments of unbridled desolation. Once the wiggling became accompanied by whimpers, we got up to explore the contents of the room. Hope opted to make a thorough investigation of a plastic sandal while I tackled some notebooks.

I found it near the back of the second one. So far, I’d skimmed through poetry and scattered jottings that ranged from joyful exuberance through wistful musings to bleak, all-consuming anguish that skittered chills up my spine.

But here, I found hope for a future. Dreams and plans. My heart cracked all over again as I read pages and pages of Charlie’s ideas to turn the farmhouse into a retreat. A sanctuary. A place for artists and writers, bakers and crafters. Overworked health workers who spent all day every day taking care of others at the expense of themselves. Businesspeople, frayed and frazzled and so stuck in their never-ending treadmill of achievement that they couldn’t remember what was really important.

A chance for people to reconnect with the earth again. To slow down to nature’s steady pace. To stop thinking and start sensing: to smell the damp wood after a storm, the fragrance of the blossom in spring. To listen to the sound of life thriving in every corner, every crevice – the birds, the bees, the rustling of the leaves. To taste – tomatoes plucked that morning, bursting with goodness. Herbs grown on the patio sprinkled over pasta rolled out the old-fashioned way. And, of course, to touch – hands buried in the textures of the garden, seeking treasure in the peaty vegetable beds. The kiss of sunshine on tired skin. The glorious exuberance of icy wind in their hair.

And to stop, and look. To soak up a world unobstructed by concrete and tarmac. Rolling hills stretching out across the horizon. A myriad of stars undimmed by city lights.