29/8/42
Soon the halls will be filled with the noise of happy children at play once again. We will have new minds among our number, open and free and innocent. I should be thinking of this, and not that the boy did not write to me, nor of what I see printed in this venomous rag of a paper.
Kyteler's son is so dense. So blind, for so long, to something so luminous.
The world is unfair, and will ever be so until we make it otherwise.