The first watery light of the Thursday morning crept in and I. was shuffling thorugh the kitchen with the eyes half-closed , wrapped up in the oversized cream flannel dressing gown, rubbing her stiff fingers while making the morning coffee. The ritual had the soothing effect of an engine drone and the auto-pilot in her brain was about to engage as she walked in the living room - and then she saw the note.
"MUST TRY HARDER" written in elegant longhand, letters deliberate, large and precise, resting on the computer screen showing that first and only page of "Cypher" she had wrestled out of her writer's block.
The comfortable mind numbing routine had been shattered and she stared at the paper as the animal would at the approaching traffic.
WHAT.
THE.
HELL....
The handwriting was as unfamiliar as it was unashamedly intimate - I.'s mind was groaning in protest at being dragged out so brutally from under the duvet.
WHO.
THE.
HELL...
She looked around. There was nothing missing. They had been burgled before, but this was something else. SOME SON OF B... HAS PAWED AT MY THINGS...
She walked upstairs and dressed in hurried silence. WHY HASN'T THE DOG BARKED, DAMN IT.
I. grabbed the keys and her Oyster travel card and opened the front door to the snowed-in path. A handful of people in the street were trying to clear their car windscreens, the sound of ice-scrapers muffled in the chill of the 7.30am.
A tall man in black, all cashmere and leather, brushed past her. She watched with admiration the athletic figure effortlessly moving through the first December snow with the grace and elegance of a satiated tiger. She stopped, catching the falling snowflake in her gloved hand, pressing the cold crystals to her lips.
PERFECT BEAUTY. I. had just enough time to glance at his flawless features framed by long strands of ash-blond hair tucked under a black beanie, head ever so slightly bowed, thunderstorm-grey eyes smiling cryptically as he walked by.

She was not aware that - like every other soul in the street - her eyes followed him wistfully, letting out the pained, longing collective sigh as the beautiful beast silently disappeared at the end of the Oakwood Close, his dark bootprints erased by the falling snow.