Chapter Text
I've been documenting Poirot's stories, at least the ones I've witnessed, for a very long time, since Styles, in fact. As long as we've been friends, I dare say.
My writing process has always been the same.
I tend to keep a small notebook with me always, where, whenever the time permits, I take some notes of the most notable events of the day. With this, later at night, before I retire to bed, I am able to write with more detail what happened in my personal journal, not yet in a professional capacity. Even then, I like to talk to a reader, whoever it might be, perhaps another part of myself, even if the story being told isn't meant to be published.
Then, once the case ends, I go back to those pages and start working on editing them.
I have the honour to bring into existence some of our adventures, cases and mysteries for the reader to enjoy.
Still, this means that a lot is left out.
The story always begins, in its more complete form, in a journal, a document so private one usually doesn't even share it with the ones closest to us. So, in extracting the real plot from it, what's left is the rest, the more meaningful and private things that happen during an investigation. My deepest thoughts, my feelings, the most mundane of things, not important or interesting enough to be shared, and the more relevant ones, those that mean so much, those so precious, no one else deserves to see.
Those things that we all keep hidden inside our own little worlds.
This is one of those stories.