Vox Meditantis

Catherine quietly audits her own “professional armour” as she ponders the first impression she gives: impeccable clinician, or actual human being with crooked watercolours and late-life hopes. Expect harbour walks, office chairs, and a risky inch towards being known.

New Corinth’s favourite psychiatrist swaps case notes for a late-life love story on her nightstand, as a quietly subversive novel dares Catherine to want more than usefulness, and to decide whether companionship is worth unsettling her carefully solitary, harbourlit equilibrium.

Catherine weighs Parisian fantasies against New Corinth’s harbour grit, testing whether a Quebec hotel, her parents’ ghost-cities and a careful-handed man can tempt her from the radical experiment of simply staying put where she already belongs.

On a rain-soaked Thursday, Catherine answers a seemingly light prompt: coolest thing she’s ever found and kept. A chipped harbour shell becomes confession booth, colleague, and secular rosary, as she traces how small objects quietly rewrite the work of staying human.