London moved through autumn into winter with an elegance California never needed to learn. Plane trees stripped down to silver bark. Wet pavements under streetlamps. Markets selling mulled wine. My life there grew roots in quiet, practical ways. I found the corner grocer with the good peaches in summer and terrible ones in winter. I learned which Underground line to avoid when tourists flooded the city. I bought proper boots. I joined a reading group without telling anyone back home. I let my hair grow longer. I stopped waiting for my phone to become a weapon.
Healing did not look noble. It looked repetitive. It looked like choosing sleep, choosing food, choosing not to reread old messages, choosing not to answer curious acquaintances who had suddenly become emotionally available after scandal made me interesting. It looked like sitting in my small flat on Sundays with tea and paperwork and Betty’s letters spread out on the table, letting her voice retrain the way I spoke to myself.