The last letter you wrote to me is still in my drawer.

Its so strange to think that there will never be another thing written in your handwriting and there will never be another part of your story. The hands you used, the brain behind it, the heart that felt the hope you wrote all now lie still. We were there with you hanging on tenterhooks to see how it would all pan out. I was rooting for you. I read your letter, written in black biro ink on prison paper, and something about the lines on that page connected with my heart strings. I know you wanted my colleague to be the one to write back. I’m sorry it wasn’t him. He was snowed under and I could see the stress in his face.

But we talked about you.

We were so pleased to hear that you were feeling better, more yourself, ready to make a change, looking forward to the future. But if I’m honest we were tentative. Too trapped by the case work we were struggling under to move the mountains for you. And while we try, we are not miracle workers. It seemed for a moment that perhaps it was within your reach. All you needed was for the mountain to sigh, for its pinnacle to lean, and you would have seized the opportunity with everything you had. You were reaching, stretching, straining, just about to make it…

But mountains do not often lean, and now your hands lie cold.

And here I am in my arm chair at home shedding tears over you, Danny.

Because you are gone.

I remember the last meal I shared with you. We talked about what the winter night shelter had been like for you. I enjoyed your company so much that evening, as I often had. It warmed my heart to hear you say how much it had all meant to you. I can remember leaving the shelter that night. It felt like the perfect moment, now a perfect memory. The dark street, the cool spring air filled my lungs as I breathed deeply for the first time in 3 months. The relentless winter was ending. Relief. Volunteers, staff, we were all shattered. Every team meeting was full of moral and logistical dilemmas. The door duty had been hard, I had to turn away too many people that year. And then when the air turned blue as a result, I’d had to call the police. But now it was spring, the weather was warming, and you knew change was possible. That season had been such a hard one, the hardest I’ve ever done, but what you said made it all worth it.

In your letter you said that you thought the shelter had saved your life that year.

I thought you were overstating it but now you’re dead I guess maybe you were right.

I didn’t put it in my letter back but we knew there was almost impossible for you to go straight from prison into accommodation. There was the slimmest, uncontrollable chance that it might come together for you. But in the end you were bound for the street, even though you were clean and on the straight and narrow. We knew the path you were on would take you close to a cliff edge, and it would look like there was no bridge. We prayed you’d not be left there long. But in that gap you fell back into your old habits. The ones you were so pleased to have kicked.

I never heard the details of how you finally departed, although I know it was an overdose.

“Don’t worry, I know it's hard. Most people relapse at some point. It's a part of recovery.”

But after all your hard work your body was more vulnerable than ever and that’s why you will never recover.

This morning I heard that your brother climbed a mountain for a homeless charity. I didn’t even know you had a brother.

I’m glad though. I’m glad he’s using his memory of you to make the world a better place. After I heard I went to my desk and reread your letter. My memories of you gently rose to the surface and threatened to bubble out over. It took some deep breaths to keep it all inside. I wanted to put words to the grief, to share it with my colleague. But I knew if I opened my mouth tears would roll and I was needed downstairs to start the drop in in ten minutes. More people would be arriving who needed to see a brave face, someone to fight their battles with them.

So, like your brother, I honour you by doing what I can for those I can still do something for.