I’m glad Mum got an extra little bit of life over the last few months. Of health. She came back to us, which is more than anyone could have expected. Plus, the changes here at Evergreen – I have no reason to feel bad about putting her in here, now. The place was fantastic after Eldercare took over, and when Mum was back in the world with us. Much, much better than it was before. She didn’t know anything about it, back then, did she? When she became aware of being in a home, it was a great place to be.

Like Mr Jordan said: if I have to end up in a home, I hope it’s here, like this.

I walk through the place for the last time. As I approach the atrium, I hear piano music. Haunting piano music. A young woman is sitting at a baby grand in there, and she’s playing this slow, mournful tune, and it’s spellbinding. I know nothing about music, but even I can tell she has a wonderful touch. The notes float from her fingers and hang in the air. An audience has gathered. I see Dr Morton standing there too, watching this girl play, and she looks like a proud parent, slightly in awe of what her child has become. I don’t think she has any children, though. It’s a trick of the light, I expect, or maybe the power of the music.

The young woman finishes the piece and sits for a moment, still, looking at her hands. The audience starts to clap.

The young woman turns and smiles at them. And my breath catches for a second. You know how sometimes you see someone, and they move in a particular way, or smile, or say something in a certain tone, and it instantly reminds you of someone else?

This young woman, she’s suddenly, for a moment, like Mum. My mind’s playing tricks. It’s the grief, of course. But something about her reminds me of my mother. I’ve seen pictures of Mum when she was in her 20s, and under the different clothes, and the hair, and the make-up, this young woman is more than a little like her. To my now rather damp eye.

Ridiculous. I want to go over and talk to her, but what would I say? I’m being stupid.

I’m going to. I have to.

Then Dr Morton catches sight of me, and comes across.

‘Mr Woodruff – please accept my condolences. Your mother was a remarkable woman. We all miss her very much.’

‘Thank you – I do too, of course – please, tell me – who’s that young woman?’

‘Which one? We have many working here,’ she says, smiling.

‘Her – the one who – where is she? – the one who was playing the piano.’

I look round the room, but the young woman has vanished.