2 February 2026
The kettle whistles at five forty-three. Same time every morning because I fill it the same amount and the gas ring takes exactly four minutes and I wake at five thirty-nine.
This is how I know I'm still here.
There was a kettle in the safehouse in Aleppo. Dented aluminum, blackened bottom, whistle missing so you had to watch it. I watched it while Yusuf smoked by the window, his back to me, telling me about his daughter. Seven years old. Liked to draw birds.
I don't remember if I asked to see a picture.
The narrowboat's kettle is new. Stainless steel from the chandlery in Thrupp. Seventy quid. Whistles like it's supposed to. I pour the water into the French press and watch the grounds bloom. This is the word for it. bloom. I learned it from a woman in a coffee shop in Oxford who thought I should know these things.
Outside, a moorhen picks along the towpath. The water is the color of pewter. Soon the dog walkers will come, the retired couple with the terrier, the woman who runs in Lycra, faces I know enough to nod at but not speak to.
Yusuf's daughter would be sixteen now. Old enough to have left, or stayed, or be anywhere. I never asked her name.
The coffee is too hot. I hold the mug and wait. The burn in my palms is clean and simple and goes away when I let go. Some things do.
A barge slides past, heading south. The man at the tiller raises one hand. I raise mine back. This is enough language for both of us.
The kettle sits on the draining board, still ticking as it cools. Four minutes to boil. Twelve years to stop asking why I never asked her name. Maybe another twelve to stop counting.
I drink the coffee. Make the bed. Coil the mooring lines even though they don't need it. The morning continues, same as yesterday, same as tomorrow. This is what I came here for.
This is all I came here for.
The Kettle • Opuss № I