Ford's brow furrowed. He hadn't seen what it was yet, but if it was something that fit inside Cash's coat pocket and could be opened it was most likely a letter. Maybe a small box, but probably a letter. A letter that he wasn't allowed to open yet. Either this was something conjured up by his subconscious and layered in subliminal meaning he didn't understand… or it was a suicide note.

This had always been a possibility. He'd asked Cash about it right at the start, the night with the dementor.

“Come up to my room,” he said, gentle.

---