Walking back into her office residence, Myfanwy Thomas slowly shut the door behind her, before promptly bursting into tears, dashing across to the black leather sofa and collapsing in a heap on it. She'd had to cope with so many incidents today; that whole business with the immortal psychic duck, and the way Mister Robert Henderson had just butchered the poor bird alive; she could still feel the aura of its death lingering on the man when he'd been sitting in her office barely ten minutes ago, signing the sufficient statutory documents of secrecy, without even an ounce of regret. When he'd emerged from that doorway, with his hands drenched in blood, she'd been able to sense the pain and trauma of the bird in its death throes, making her sick to her stomach. But honestly, it wasn't the duck's own death that had affected her so much, which was playing out over and over again in her mind. Even now, the duck's prophecy of her impending doom lingered over here, overwhelming her with so much fear and hopelessness that she could hardly bear it. Less than a month. Less than a month before she'd be attacked by a member of the Checquy; less than a month until she'd lose everything that made her who she was. Her memories, her personality, her very soul- all set for imminent and total annihilation. Soon, so soon, she'd be gone forever. Gone forever...

Fighting to regain some trace of her composure, to tame the seemingly unending flood of tears enough to see, Myfanwy lifted her head from the sofa's clinging embrace and turned her head to peer over into the corner of the residence, the abstracted watery blurs coalescing and clarifying into the wet, recognisable outlines and colors of her study desk, and of the open suitcase sitting atop it, filled to the brim with stacks of letters in envelopes. The letters she'd been writing for her future self- the last vestiges of herself, her memories, her life stories which would live on even after her impending death. Then she thought back to other parts of the evenings' events, and the outlines all got washed away into a abstract tapestry of watercolors yet again as she began weeping anew. The manner in which all of the other members of the Checquy had treated her at that meeting- her meeting, at her Rookery, that she'd worked to hard all day to arrange meticulously. The ways in which they'd spoken about her, and spoken to her. The ways in which she'd had her personal space violated, and been touched. And worst of all, her own reactions; perfectly placid, mild and meek, completely compliant and submissive. Even after what they'd done- in spite of all they'd done to her...

Shaking with pent-up frustration, filled with self-loathing, Myfanwy strained herself to sit upright. Raised her hands to wipe away as much of the excess water from her eyes as she could, before slowly pulling off the now sodden black leather gloves she'd gone to the extra effort of purchasing and wearing just for that event- first the left glove, then the right glove. Then, exerting what felt like a herculean effort, she managed to stand up. Still weeping, but doing so silently now, and with a completely different expression on her face, she strode across to the desk, and to the suitcase. Pulled out the envelopes, stacking them all up on the desk as neatly and tidily as she could manage- making sure not to let any of the tears streaming down her face fall on any of them- in order to get to the folders underneath. The red folder, the purple folder- and the blue folder, the bulkiest of them all. Pulling it out, she opened it; opened the binder, and pulled out each and every page within it, one at a time. By the time she'd finished, her tears had stopped flowing- she'd run out of tears to cry, and she felt desperately dehydrated, but the drink of water could wait. Many of the pages which she'd removed from the folder had been caught in the downpour, with warped wet patches scattered across even the ones at the top from where the moisture had soaked through- but it was only the beginning.

Slowly, resolutely, carrying the stack of paperwork in her hands, Myfanwy made her way across to the bathroom, and to Grantchester's massive golden shell-shaped bathtub. She turned the taps on for a few minutes, up to full blast, building up a decent volume of lukewarm water in the bathtub. Then she hesitated for a few moments. Was she really going to do this? Could she bring herself to do this? Should she be doing this- what right did she have to do this? Shouldn't You, shouldn't my reincarnation who'll be born into my body within the month, have the right to know all of this stuff about me, about what I've been through- about all of these things which did so much to make me into who I am...? No. NO. Myfanwy raised the pile of paper she held in her shaking hands, above her head. All of the recorded memories which retold the tales of all those years at the Estate, her graduation and her ascent to the rank of Rook in the Checquy Court- so much of what had made her into the person that she'd become.

And then, in one swift gesture, she released her grip on them all- watched as each and every page fluttered down through the air into the bathtub, and as the bathwater set about completing the task that her own tears had started. Myfanwy slowly sank down to kneel on the luxurious purple bath-rug, beside the bathtub, and watched as the pages started to be pulled under the surface, down into the depths by the weight of the water as it soaked them through to the core, permeating every fibre of the paper. Watched as the various colors of ink she'd used to write all of those words started to fade away, bleeding out of the pages and starting to slightly tinge the bathwater. Watched, as the pages themselves, all of those years' worth of memories, started to break down, falling apart and disintegrating into smaller and smaller fragments. And then- after what felt like only a few minutes, but which later turned out to have been over an hour and a half- there was nothing but pulp, drifting aimlessly in the waters. All traces of all of those memories she'd written- gone. Gone forever.

Calmly, Myfanwy leant in, reached down under the surface, and in a poignant moment, pulled the plug. Kept her hand there, in order to keep the place as clear of gunk as possible and make sure that a blockage wouldn't build up- after all, she didn't want to risk flooding the bathroom- until all of the standing water had ebbed out. Then, she put the plug back in place, withdrew her hand, and let the soggy pulp slop back in to fill the void left it behind. For a brief moment, she debated with herself whether or not to do something meaningful with it, and put it to good use- perhaps she could pop back down to her office to get some glue, add it to the mix to turn all of this paper pulp into papier-mâché, and then set about crafting some sort of symbolic, commemorative sculpture with it? But then, upon noticing the time, and abruptly realizing just how long it had taken her to do this much, she decided to simply settle for popping across to the bar/kitchen to pick up a binbag and the largest spatula she could find, and set about unceremoniously scooping all of the pulp out into it as quickly as she could. This, this is what You deserve. To have a fresh start- a new beginning. You, my new self, my reincarnation- You have the right NOT to know...