Thursday brings the larger notebook.
It arrives by post, a proper package, carefully wrapped, the specific care of someone who ordered something important and wanted it to arrive intact. Théo opens it at the communal table after breakfast with the focused attention he gives all things that matter, removing the wrapping without tearing it, which is a habit that Celeste told me he has had since childhood and which she considers evidence of a temperament that respects the effort behind things.
The notebook is dark green, larger than the previous ones, with a heavier cover and pages that are thick enough to absorb both ink and pressure without bleeding through. He opens it. He runs his hand across the first blank page. He looks at the compound through the communal space window.
He writes at
