The first two weeks at number eight passed by in a sort of fugue for Vesper Lynd, now legally Laura Wright. She was still recuperating from her illness and the coma out of which she'd only recently awakened.

The hypoxia she'd suffered had left her forgetful and aphasic, and she spent several days losing articles only to find them in the strangest places. Words did not come easily to her, though thankfully she had very few conversations. Her physical scars, the IV marks and the bruising on her chest faded with time, and her lungs began healing as well, though she still found stairs and long walks left her short of breath.

She only left the flat to pick up the essentials; bread, milk, eggs. She spent very little time outdoors, mostly because she preferred to be alone and felt uncomfortable with the stares she seemed to garner. As well, she preferred to remain inside until her body was used to being upright and mobile again after so many weeks horizontal. Her muscles and bones were atrophied from lack of use and only after nearly a week and a half did she feel comfortable moving about normally.

She thought little of James Bond or her present situation, having walled off the emotions that had so broken her earlier. She spent very little time ruminating, instead occupying herself with books or with television. Sometimes she watched the children play in the nearby park, or the birds nesting on the roof across the way.

She spent her days merely fulfilling her body's needs; she ate, slept and bathed when she needed to, went to the toilet when she needed to, when to the shop round the corner when she needed to. It was not happy, but it was comfortable, and it was the only way she could stand it.

M didn't call again, but almost two weeks to the day, a very well-dressed scholarly man knocked on her door. She was hesitant to let him in, but felt nonetheless indebted to M, and escorted him in and to the sofa.

His name was Dr. Lloyd and he worked for MI6. M was right, he was very good, and he tried valiantly to get Vesper to talk about her ordeal. She could not. The dam she'd built up was holding it at bay for now. It would break, some day, but not today. She told the man as much. No sense in beating round the bush.

He nodded, seeing she was telling the truth and left her with his card.

Then she was alone again. She breathed deeply, pushing back the panic that had come to her. The man's questions had left her unsettled, despite her unwillingness to talk. She sat on the sofa, looking out at the sky, as grey as it always was, breathing deeply and evenly and eventually she eased back from the edge.

She fell asleep on the sofa, and woke hours later feeling much better.

M called her the next day and Vesper told her what she'd told the man. She was not ready, not yet. The older woman seemed to accept this and after Vesper's assertions that she was doing well, she let her go.

Her days carried on like this for many more weeks; sleep, eat, walk, sleep, read, shop, sleep. She was shocked one day to discover it had been nearly a month and a half since she'd left the hospital, which meant it had been more than two since she'd almost met her end in a watery steel cage. But she didn't spend much time thinking about it.

She dreamt sometimes, terrifying dreams that left her gasping for breath when she woke, ones that made her feel again, really feel everything, guilt, grief, fear, oh, so much fear, over and over again until she thought she would die from the pain. But the agony would fade when she woke.

The memory of the pain, however, did not, so she kept herself in this monotonous routine, day after day as the summer faded to autumn, the sun setting earlier, days becoming brisker, leaves threatening to change, rain and gloom pervading the skies.

Soon it had been two months since she left the hospital, and M called to check in. She told her little, because there was little to tell. She was still not ready to speak with Dr. Lloyd, she told her, and M sounded more than a little concerned.

"If you keep on like this, Miss Lynd, it's eventually going to come back, more than likely all at once. It may be very difficult to cope." M's voice was as soft as Vesper had ever heard it.

"I can't, I'm sorry. Not yet," Vesper told her, and the lack of emotion in her tone disturbed even her.

"Very well," M replied, and Vesper thought she heard her sigh, "I'll be in touch."

She hung up the phone and settled on the sofa for a mid-afternoon nap.

She was still often tired in the day, despite the ten hours she got every night. She attributed it to her recovery, then to boredom, and then, she admitted to herself, to her likely depression. But she couldn't bring herself to be concerned about it now.

Vesper simply continued to exist. She couldn't call it living, couldn't call it a life. She merely was, drifting from one location to another, feeling nothing, contemplating very little.

Soon it was late November and the rain lessened somewhat, though sunny days became rarer and rarer. It was cold often, with temperatures in the low single digits in the mornings, making her daily walks (a new habit, in spite of herself) chilly affairs, and more often than not she could see her breath.

In truth, she had felt better these last few weeks. Physically, anyway. She had a little more energy, and found she slept less during the day. Emotionally she was the same, but it was something, she supposed.

She attributed her newfound energy to her body finally recovering from her ordeal. It had been three months since that day in Venice, and her brain and lungs were back to normal. Her daily walks helped her recover muscle tone, though her upper body was still weaker than it had been. There were times when she felt almost content, on the walks she took, or curling up with a good book. She felt as though a fog had lifted, and there was a tiny spark of hope that maybe things would continue this way. That she would get better. That this would be a life again.

Then it happened.