Vox Meditantis

You have come seeking answers. I traffic in secrets, though perhaps not the variety you anticipate. These chains that bind me – choice or fate? Sit, if you dare. Listen. Then tell me whether you still require my services.

I have learned to open doors that were not meant for men like me. Three days on the Walsingham road, and I confess – though confession comes easier when it costs nothing – I am not the pilgrim I appear to be.

I come here Sundays, to where the old ferry used to cross. Don’t ask me why – I couldn’t tell you, not properly. The light goes early this time of year. Shows you things you’d rather not see.

Eleven days clean. The steam opens the throat, the wind tells its stories, and they still come asking about peace. I’m not here to promise you the future – just to keep breathing when the air burns.

They call me mad for keeping what others cast aside. But when a dying woman pressed a sealed letter into my hands, I learnt the difference between hoarding rubbish and guarding secrets that could destroy lives.