I can't make you understand, I can't make anyone understand what I am, I can only let you feel it, the rest is up to you.
——Franz Kafka, "The Metamorphosis"
Victoria sat in front of the writing desk, with morning light filtering through the curtain's crevice, casting fine rays on her face.
On the desk lay a report, just a few short lines.
She had looked at it for a long time, long enough for the words to feel engraved in her eyes.
——Sir Arthur Hastings had traveled north to Scotland yesterday.
She reached out, intending to pick up the report and read it again, but her fingers barely touched the edge before she pulled back.
What more is there to see?
She recognized the words, she understood the meaning.
Characters, time, place, all accounted for.
As for the specific details, the report did not elaborate too clearly, but at such a sensitive time, where else could he go but to the Hastings family's estate?
