this room, stark and quiet, name after name of the missing carved into the black walls, is a graveyard for people who do not want to bury empty coffins. it’s a place of mourning and quiet, and laurence is stood in front of a large window. beyond, pale yellow light spills across quiet rows of careful, organised storage. in each compartment lie bones and dust and dna of people who haven’t yet been matched to a name on the wall. this isn’t the right place to bring in personal prejudices and angers, but laurence sees the reflection of jude lancaster in the glass and turns his head sharply. his voice is sharper than he even realised it would be. “are you writing another book?” / @speakill.












