You were four days old when I wrote this. You slept in the crook of my arm and made a sound like a small engine. The midwife had gone home. The flat was very quiet.

I don't know who you are yet. I know you have your father's hands and that you hate being cold. I know you turn toward the window when it rains. These are the only facts I have, so I am writing them down before they are lost.

If you are reading this, it worked. The vault held. Eighteen years is a long time to keep a thing sealed, and I am trusting people I will never meet to keep their word. Be kind to whoever you have become.