“I’m angry with you,” she said.
“I know.”
“I’m proud you told the truth.”
I looked at her.
“I know those sound as if they shouldn’t go together.”
“They do.”
She nodded.
We walked a little farther.
Then she said, “I’m not making promises about every day.”
“I’m not asking.”
“Some visits will be hard.”
“Yes.”
“Some days I might not want to come.”
“I understand.”
She stopped.
“Don’t say that unless you mean it.”
I looked at her.
“I mean that you get to decide.”
Her eyes filled.
After a moment, she took my hand.
Not because everything had been settled.
Because it hadn’t.
And she wanted to hold it anyway.
PART 17: LETTERS WITHOUT INSTRUCTIONS
Prison stripped importance from things I had mistaken for identity.
My name did not open doors.
My impatience did not shorten days.
There were rules I did not design and people whose time I could not purchase.
I worked.
I attended the programs available to me.
I learned how long an afternoon could become when there was no one to summon.
At first, my letters to Clara were too careful.
Too organized.
Updates.
Reassurances.
Promises about the future.
Her third reply contained a sentence I read until the paper softened at the fold.
You can tell me you had a bad day without making it my responsibility to fix.
So I tried.
I wrote about being lonely.
About missing the sound of her looking for something in the kitchen.
About a memory of Rose that arrived while I was folding a shirt.
Clara wrote about her own life.
She had begun working with an organization that supported women leaving controlling families.
Not as a symbol.
Not as the woman from the headlines.
She helped sort practical matters.
Appointments.
Applications.
Lists of documents.
The small things that became enormous when someone else had always held them.
She visited Elise.
She saw Marissa.
Sometimes she met Daniel for coffee.
Sometimes she did not.
She opened the nursery.
At first, only to sit.
Later, she moved the cot into storage.
She kept the little birds.
One letter included a photograph.
The room had become a quiet study.
A chair by the window.
Bookshelves.
A lamp.
On the wall hung the unfinished mobile.
Beneath the photograph, she had written:
I needed a room that could hold what happened without asking me to stop living.
I sat on the edge of the bed and cried.
Then I wrote back.
It’s beautiful.
For once, I did not add a suggestion.
PART 18: THE VISIT FROM ELISE
Elise visited me in my second year.
She wore a green coat.
No folder.
That was the first thing I noticed.
We sat opposite each other.
For several seconds, she looked at me without speaking.
Then she said, “You look older.”
“So do you.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“That’s not usually a compliment.”
I smiled faintly.
“I meant grown.”
“I was grown before.”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
We began there.
She had returned to school.
Part-time.
By choice.
She was working too.
Again, by choice.
Her financial arrangements had been repaired as far as the records and recoveries allowed.
Independent trustees handled what remained.
She understood the statements now.
She asked questions.
People answered.
“I don’t want my father turned into a misunderstood man,” she said suddenly.
I looked at her.
“He did bad things.”
“Yes.”
“And I loved him.”
“I know.”
“I can have both.”
“Yes.”
She watched me.
“So can Clara.”
My throat tightened.
I nodded.
At the end of the visit, she stood.
“I don’t forgive everything.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“I know.”
She paused.
“That’s why I came.”
After she left, I sat for a while before returning to my unit.
There had been a time when I would have judged the meeting by whether she hugged me.
Now I understood the significance of her coming without carrying proof.
PART 19: THE FIRST MORNING HOME
When I returned home, Clara met me outside.
No convoy.
No dark-suited men.
She stood beside an ordinary car with her hands in her coat pockets.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then she smiled.
A small smile.
Uncertain.
Mine felt the same.
I stopped a few feet away.
“Hello.”
“Hello.”
She looked at the bag in my hand.
“Is that everything?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She took one handle.
I held the other.
We carried it together.
On the drive, we talked about traffic.
The weather.
A road closure.
It was strange how much room ordinary facts could take when two people were trying not to overwhelm a moment.
At the apartment, I stopped inside the door.
The place had changed.
Different curtains.
A table moved.
Plants where there had never been plants.
Clara watched me.
“I didn’t keep it exactly the same.”
“I’m glad.”
She nodded.
“You’ve got a drawer.”
“Only one?”
Her mouth curved.
“For now.”
I laughed.
Then she laughed.
The sound startled both of us.
That evening, I cooked.
Badly.
Clara sat at the table reading while I tried to rescue something that had become too salty.
“You could order food,” she said.
“I wanted to make dinner.”
“You have.”
She looked toward the pan.
“It just isn’t edible.”
I stared at it.
Then at her.
We ordered food.
I washed the pan.
Later, she showed me the study.
Rose’s room.
She opened the door and let me enter first.
The birds turned gently in a draft from the window.
There were five now.
Clara had finished the yellow one.
I stood beneath them.
For a moment, all the years between the hospital and that evening seemed to fold together.
I put a hand over my face.
Clara came beside me.
“She’d be starting school,” I whispered.
“I know.”
I began crying.
She leaned against me.
We did not rush through it.
Then, when we were ready, we went back to the kitchen and made tea.
PART 20: THE GARDEN
We planted a rosebush in the courtyard the following spring.
Not a grand memorial.
One plant in a place that received enough light.
Clara chose it.
I dug the hole.
Elise came with gloves.
Marissa brought sandwiches.
Daniel asked whether Clara wanted him there.
She took a day to answer.
Then said yes.
He arrived alone.
He did not bring flowers large enough to hide behind.
For a while, he worked quietly beside me.
Then Clara asked him to hold the plant steady while she settled soil around the roots.
His hands trembled.
He did the job.
Afterward, we sat on folding chairs.
There was no speech.
No attempt to make grief inspiring.
We ate.
We talked.
At one point, Elise told a story about a disastrous presentation at school, and Clara laughed so hard she had to put down her glass.
I watched her.
Not because I had forgotten the sadness.
Because joy had returned without asking sadness to leave first.
Later, when the others had gone, Daniel stayed near the gate.
“Thank you for letting me come,” he told Clara.
She nodded.
“I’m glad you helped.”
He looked down.
“I wish I’d helped when it mattered most.”
Clara was quiet.
Then she said, “So do I.”
He accepted it.
He did not make her comfort him.
After he left, she took my hand.
We stood beside the new plant.
It looked fragile.
Two thin branches.
A handful of leaves.
I wanted to surround it with protection.
Better soil.
A shelter.
Something to ensure nothing could touch it.
Instead, I asked, “What does it need?”
Clara looked at the label.
“Water.”
I went to get some.
PART 21: THE PEOPLE WHO REMAINED
Years passed.
Not quickly.
Not in a blur.
They passed through work, anniversaries, arguments, medical appointments, ordinary Sundays, and mornings when one of us woke sad without knowing why until we checked the date.
Clara and I did not have another child.
At first, people treated that as an unfinished sentence.
Eventually, the people who loved us learned to stop waiting for a different ending.
There were children in our lives.
Elise’s little boy.
Marissa’s niece.
The children of friends who spilled things in our apartment and asked why the birds hung in the study.
Clara answered according to their age.
“They remind us of someone we love.”
That was enough.
Our home did not become less of a family because some rooms held books instead of toys.
Clara’s father died while still serving his sentence.
She chose not to visit before his death.
She grieved him afterward.
Both decisions were hers.
For a while, she felt guilty about the grief.
Then she said one evening, “I think part of me was still waiting for the father he might have become.”
I held her hand.
She cried for that man.
Then, slowly, stopped waiting.
Her brothers remained at different distances.
Some never accepted responsibility.
Some tried.
Clara did not build one rule for all of them.
She considered what each person did.
She allowed herself to change her mind.
Daniel became a steadier presence.
Not because a letter had transformed him.
Because years of choices followed it.
He respected no.
He answered difficult questions.
He stayed when conversations hurt.
One day, Clara asked him to come over without first discussing the visit with her attorney or her counselor or me.
Afterward, she sat on the sofa looking surprised.
“What?” I asked.
“I forgot to be afraid.”
I looked at her.
Then looked away before my own tears could make the moment too heavy.
“That sounds good.”
“It was.”
PART 22: THE MESSAGE I DID NOT SEND
On the anniversary of the hospital call, I woke before midnight.
For years, my body had remembered the time.
Twelve-seventeen.
Sometimes I woke at twelve-fifteen.
Sometimes twelve-twenty.
Close enough.
Clara slept beside me.
Her breathing was steady.
The window stood open a little.
Somewhere below, a car passed over wet pavement.
I reached for my phone.
Old habit.
There had been a time when being awake meant finding someone else to instruct.
A report to request.
A risk to eliminate.
I opened the screen.
No emergency.
No message waiting.
Just the date.
I put the phone down.
Clara stirred.
“You all right?”
“Yes.”
She opened her eyes.
Then understood.
“Oh.”
I nodded.
She moved closer.
For a while, we listened to the city.
Then she asked, “Do you remember what you said to him?”
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
I looked toward the ceiling.
I remembered every word.
The reason nobody touched your family for six years.
At the time, it had sounded like the truth of my power.
Now it sounded like a confession of how much I had misunderstood.
“I remember.”
“What do you think about it now?”
I turned toward her.
“That I wasn’t the reason you survived.”
Her eyes shone in the dark.
“The doctors helped you survive.”
“The person who called for the ambulance.”
“The nurses.”
“You.”
I swallowed.
“And I wasn’t the person who uncovered the truth.”
“You were.”
Clara touched my face.
“You came when they called.”
“Yes.”
“And you stayed.”
I closed my eyes.
“Eventually, I learned how.”
She leaned her forehead against mine.
Outside, the city continued without waiting for us.
Men I once knew still mistook fear for loyalty.
Some people still lowered their voices when they heard my name.
I no longer needed them to.
In the courtyard below, the rosebush had grown against the wall.
Its branches were stronger now.
Clara pruned it when it needed pruning.
I watered it when the soil was dry.
Some years it flowered generously.
Some years it struggled.
We cared for it without pretending care could command the seasons.
That was what remained of the life I had once tried to control.
Not power.
Responsibility.
Not the certainty that nothing could hurt us.
The knowledge that when something did, we would speak.
We would ask.
We would listen.
And we would not call silence protection again.
Clara settled beside me.
A few minutes later, her breathing deepened.
I stayed awake a little longer.
Then I put my hand beside hers on the blanket.
I did not make a promise to the dark.
I did not send an order.
I let morning come.
PART 23: THE LETTER WITH NO RETURN ADDRESS
The letter arrived on a Tuesday when we were arguing about a broken dishwasher.
I remember that because, years earlier, I would have assumed anything important came with a warning.
An unfamiliar car outside.
A phone call after midnight.
A voice that lowered itself before saying my name.
Instead, Clara stood in the kitchen holding a wet plate.
“If you tell me one more time that washing dishes by hand builds character, I’m leaving you with all the pans.”
“I said it builds appreciation.”
“For what?”
“The dishwasher.”
She looked at me.
I took the plate.
Then the doorbell rang.
A delivery.
A grocery order.
Three envelopes pushed through the letterbox.
Nothing about the moment suggested that, before evening, Clara would be sitting on the floor of the study holding a piece of paper she could barely bring herself to read.
The envelope was cream-colored.
No return address.
Her name written by hand.
Mrs. Clara Vale.
She picked it up after lunch.
I was at the table reviewing an invoice from the small property business I now helped manage.
Lawful work.
Ordinary work.
The sort that produced arguments about damp walls and late payments rather than whispered instructions.
Clara turned the envelope over.
“Do you recognize the writing?” I asked.
“No.”
She opened it carefully.
A folded letter slipped into her hand.
Something smaller fell onto the table.
A photograph.
Clara stopped breathing.
I looked up.
“What is it?”
She did not answer.
I stood and went around the table.
The photograph showed a woman outside the hospital.
Dark coat.
Hair pinned back.
One hand raised as though she had just turned toward someone calling her name.
Clara’s mother.
Eleanor.
She had died before Clara and I married.
Or that was what Clara had always been told.
On the back of the photograph, someone had written:
She came for you.
Clara gripped the edge of the table.
I pulled out the chair behind her.
She sat.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then she unfolded the letter.
PART 24: THE WOMAN AT THE WINDOW
The first line was an apology.
Clara read it aloud.
“‘I should have found a way to tell you sooner.’”
Her voice sounded distant.
She continued.
“‘My name is Judith Mercer. I worked in administration at the private clinic your father owned.’”
I felt my stomach tighten.
The clinic.
The forged transfer request.
The building Clara had once feared she would be moved to while unable to refuse.
She stopped reading.
I waited.
Then she looked up.
“My mother died when I was nineteen.”
“Yes.”
“That’s what he told me.”
I looked at the photograph again.
It had been taken outside the hospital where Clara had been treated after the attack.
The entrance had been remodeled shortly before that night.
There was no mistaking it.
“When was this taken?” she asked.
I turned the photograph over.
No date.
Only the sentence.
She came for you.
Clara resumed reading.
“‘There are things I witnessed and things I only learned afterward. I will not pretend they are the same.’”
Her hand shook.
“‘Your mother was not dead when your father told you she was.’”
The room went silent.
I had watched Clara survive revelations that would have exhausted almost anyone.
Her father’s plans.
Her brothers’ choices.
My secrets.
The money taken from Elise.
But this was different.
This reached beneath the life she had rebuilt and lifted a floorboard she had never known was loose.
She put down the letter.
“No.”
I sat beside her.
She looked at me.
“No.”
I did not tell her to be calm.
I did not tell her we needed proof.
We did need proof.
But first she needed the room to remain still while the words reached her.
“She was ill,” Clara said.
“I know.”
“She went away.”
“I know.”
“He said she’d died.”
Her eyes filled.
“There was a service.”
I had heard about it.
A small service.
No body.
No open coffin.
Her father had said her mother wanted privacy.
Clara had worn a black dress borrowed from an aunt.
For years, she had blamed herself for remembering how much the shoes hurt.
Now she covered her mouth.
“I cried for her.”
I put my hand on the table.
Close enough for her to take.
She did.
PART 25: WHAT THE LETTER ACTUALLY SAID
We read it twice.
Slowly.
Then we read it a third time, separating what Judith claimed to know from what she feared.
Eleanor had left the family home after years of intimidation and financial control.
There had been a period of severe depression.
Treatment.
A private facility.
Then another placement arranged through Clara’s father.
Judith had met her there.
Not as a physician.
Not as someone making decisions about her care.
As a woman handling appointments and correspondence.
Letters had arrived for Eleanor.
Letters had left.
Some had been returned to the office with instructions that they were not to be forwarded.
Judith had questioned it once.
She had been told there were legal restrictions and complex family circumstances.
She had accepted the explanation.
Years later, Eleanor had come to the trauma hospital after hearing that Clara had been admitted.
Judith had driven her.
That was when the photograph had been taken.
But Eleanor had not reached Clara’s room.
A man had met them near the entrance.
He had spoken privately to Eleanor.
When he left, she was shaking.
She had asked Judith to take her home.
There was a gap in the letter after that.
Then:
I do not know what he told her.
I know she believed you did not want to see her.
Clara pressed her palm against her chest.
The final paragraph was short.
Judith had recently found copies of correspondence among papers kept from her years at the clinic.
She had been ill herself.
For the first time, she wrote, she had begun thinking less about whether she could bear the consequences of speaking and more about whether Clara should bear the consequences of her silence.
There was a telephone number.
An address.
And one final sentence.
Your mother is alive.
Clara stood.
Then sat again.
I could see the questions arriving too quickly.
Where?
How?
Why hadn’t she come?
Why hadn’t she called?
Was the letter true?
Was this another person using grief to get through our door?
I reached for my phone.
Then stopped.
Clara saw the movement.
“What were you going to do?”
“Call someone.”
“Who?”
“I hadn’t decided.”
She looked at me for a long time.
Then she nodded toward the phone.
“Let’s decide.”
Together.
The word did not need to be spoken.
PART 26: THE CALL WE MADE TOGETHER
We called Rebecca first.
Even after all those years, Clara still trusted her with the questions that made the room feel unstable.
Rebecca listened.
Then asked for copies.
“Don’t contact anyone claiming to represent your mother until we’ve checked the details.”
Clara closed her eyes.
“I know.”
“We can verify the woman’s identity.”
“All right.”
“And Clara?”
“Yes?”
“A letter can contain true facts and still leave out important ones.”
Clara looked at the photograph.
“I’m trying not to run ahead.”
“I know.”
After the call, we sat quietly.
Then Clara asked, “Do you think she left me?”
I looked at her.
“I don’t know.”
The answer hurt her.
I could see it.
But a comforting guess would have been another lie she might later need to survive.
“What if she did?”
I moved closer.
“Then you’ll be allowed to feel whatever you feel about that.”
“What if he kept her away?”
“Then we’ll find out what happened.”
“What if it’s both?”
I swallowed.
“Then we won’t force it into something simpler.”
Clara leaned against me.
I held her.
The dishwasher made a grinding noise from the kitchen.
We both looked toward it.
Then Clara began laughing.
One startled, disbelieving sound.
“I can’t believe that thing is still breaking.”
I laughed too.
Then she cried.
Then we sat there until she could breathe evenly again.
PART 27: JUDITH MERCER
Rebecca verified the basic details within two days.
Judith had worked at the clinic.
The address was hers.
The records she described existed in copies she was willing to provide.
The photograph was genuine.
The date matched the morning after Clara’s attack.
That fact settled over our apartment like a change in weather.
While Clara lay behind ICU glass, believing her mother had been dead for years, Eleanor had stood outside the building.
Close enough to see the same windows.
Close enough to hear the same ambulances.
Close enough to come for her.
And then leave.
Clara asked to meet Judith.
At Rebecca’s office.
No cameras.
No strangers waiting outside.
No surprise introduction to anyone else.
Judith arrived using a walking stick.
She was smaller than I expected.
Seventy, perhaps.
Her coat was neatly brushed, but the cuffs had been repaired.
She looked at Clara and immediately began crying.
Clara remained seated.
I was proud of her for that.
She did not stand to comfort the person who had brought the pain.
Rebecca handed Judith a tissue.
When she could speak, Judith said, “You look like her.”
Clara’s face tightened.
“Please don’t start there.”
Judith nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
“What do you know?”
Judith opened her bag.
Then stopped.
She looked at Rebecca.
“May I put these on the table?”
“Yes.”
A bundle of letters.
Photocopies.
A small notebook.
Judith placed each down carefully.
“I should have asked more questions,” she said.
Clara watched her.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I believed people with titles.”
Judith looked down.
“And I was afraid of losing my work.”
Nobody answered.
After a moment, she continued.
“Neither is a good enough reason.”
Clara touched the edge of one copied envelope.
Her name appeared on it.
At an address she had not lived at for years.
“Who gave her this address?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did my mother think I was receiving these?”
“Yes.”
“Did she think I was answering?”
Judith hesitated.
Then reached for the notebook.
“There were replies.”
The room seemed to shift.
Clara looked up.
“From me?”
Judith’s eyes filled.
“Bearing your name.”
PART 28: THE WORDS SHE HAD NEVER WRITTEN
Rebecca examined the copies first.
Then she placed one in front of Clara.
I watched my wife read.
Her face changed slowly.
Not surprise.
Recognition of the kind of harm a sentence could do when delivered in the right voice.
The letter was short.
It said Clara had built a new life.
That revisiting the past would only cause distress.
That she wished Eleanor well but did not want further contact.
At the bottom was Clara’s name.
A careful imitation of her signature.
She stared at it.
“I never wrote this.”
Judith nodded.
“I believe you.”
Clara looked up sharply.
“Did you believe it then?”
Judith’s mouth trembled.
“I didn’t know you then.”
“But you gave it to her.”
“Yes.”
“And what did she do?”
Judith wiped her cheek.
“She sat by the window.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t remember.”
Clara looked back down.
Then she asked, “What did she say?”
Judith’s voice broke.
“She said she hoped you were happy.”
I bowed my head.
Clara did not cry.
Not then.
She read the page again.
Then put it down carefully.
“Where is she?”
Judith looked toward Rebecca.
Rebecca nodded.
“You can answer.”
“She lives near the coast.”
“Alone?”
“With assistance from a local support service.”
“Is she well?”
“As well as I can judge.”
“Does she know you came?”
“No.”
Clara closed her eyes.
For a long time, there was only the sound of traffic beyond the windows.
Then she opened them.
“Don’t surprise her.”
Judith shook her head.
“I won’t.”
“And don’t tell her I’ve forgiven anything.”
“No.”
Clara looked at the false letter.
“Tell her I didn’t write this.”
Her voice trembled at last.
“Start with that.”
PART 29: THE HUSBAND WHO WAITED
For the next week, Clara moved through the apartment as though listening to something I could not hear.
She opened cupboards.
Closed them.
Picked up books without reading.
Once, I found her standing in the study beneath Rose’s birds.
“Do you want company?”
She shook her head.
Then reached for my hand before I could leave.
We stood together.
No explanation.
One evening, she asked me what I remembered about her mother.
“Only what you told me.”
“What did I tell you?”
“That she liked oranges.”
Clara smiled faintly.
“She used to peel them in one piece.”
“That she sang while cooking.”
“Yes.”
“That when you were little, she warmed your socks against the radiator.”
Clara sat down.
I knelt beside the chair.
She pressed her fingers against her mouth.
“I’d forgotten that.”
I stayed quiet.
“She’d put them on my hands first.”
Her eyes filled.
“Like mittens.”
I rested my hand against the side of the chair.
“I remember you telling me.”
Clara cried then.
Not for the forged letter.
Not for the photograph.
For warm socks.
For a woman’s hands.
For a small act of love that had survived beneath years of explanations made by someone else.
Later, she said, “I don’t want you to investigate every part of her.”
“I won’t.”
“I know there are things we need to verify.”
“Yes.”
“But I don’t want to meet a file.”
I looked at her.
“I want to meet my mother.”
I nodded.
“Then we’ll leave room for her to be a person.”
PART 30: THE BLUE HOUSE
We drove to the coast on a Thursday.
Clara had arranged the meeting herself through Judith.
Eleanor knew she was coming.
She knew Clara had not written the letters.
She had asked for time.
Then agreed.
The house was blue.
Not a dramatic blue.
A faded coastal color with white paint flaking around one window.
There were flowerpots beside the step.
A small wind chime.
A bicycle leaning against the side wall.
Clara sat in the parked car and stared.
“This is strange.”
“Yes.”
“I thought there would be…”
She stopped.
“What?”
“Something that looked like all the years.”
I looked at the little house.
The curtains moved slightly in an open window.
“What would that look like?”
“I don’t know.”
She laughed weakly.
“Bigger.”
I nodded.
She opened the car door.
Then closed it again.
“I’m frightened.”
“I know.”
“What if I don’t recognize her?”
“Then you can take your time.”
“What if she doesn’t recognize me?”
I looked at her.
“She knows you’re coming.”
Clara nodded.
Then she took out the copied letter.
Folded it.
Put it back in her bag.
“I don’t need to bring that to the door.”
“No.”
She opened the car door again.
This time, she stood.
I walked beside her to the gate.
Then stopped.
“Do you want me with you?”
She looked at the house.
A figure had appeared behind the glass.
Clara’s hand tightened around mine.
“Yes.”
We went up the path.
Before we reached the step, the door opened.
The woman standing inside was older than the photograph.
Much older than the mother Clara remembered.
Grey hair.
A soft cardigan.
One hand braced against the doorframe.
But her eyes—
Clara stopped.
The woman looked at her.
Neither spoke.
Then Eleanor lifted one trembling hand.
Not reaching far enough to demand anything.
Just lifting it.
“Clara?”
My wife made a sound I had never heard from her.
A child’s sound.
Lost and disbelieving.
“Mum?”
Eleanor covered her mouth.
Clara took one step.
Then another.
At the doorway, she stopped so suddenly I thought she might turn back.
Eleanor lowered her hand.
“I thought you didn’t want me.”
Clara began crying.
“I thought you were dead.”
The wind chime moved above us.
A small, fragile sound.
Eleanor reached for the doorframe as though the house itself had shifted.
Then she looked past Clara.
At me.
Recognition crossed her face.
Not warmth.
Not relief.
Fear.
“Adrian Vale.”
I nodded slowly.
“Yes.”
Her hand tightened against the wood.
Clara turned.
“Mum?”
Eleanor looked from her daughter to me.
Then back.
For one suspended moment, I thought she was remembering my brother.
The old companies.
A name from a life I had already accounted for.
Instead, she whispered something that made the afternoon go still.
“Clara.”
Her eyes filled.
“Before you bring him inside, there is something I need to ask him.”
I held her gaze.
“Ask.”
Eleanor swallowed.
Then she said, “Did you ever receive the letter I sent you before your wedding?”
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 31…
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