I was fourteen when I first saw a dead body. Not in the way you’re thinking, either: an elderly relative, laid gently in an open casket, sanitised and sterilised. ‘Oh, at least she had a good innings.’ That’s not death, not really. That’s the part of it society wants us to see. The carefully curated, pre-watershed acceptable face of life’s inevitable conclusion.

But death isn’t like that. It’s raw, it’s unapologetic. It can be ugly, but sometimes… sometimes it can be beautiful. That’s how this one was. How she was. I can still picture her so vividly.

It was cold, just at the beginning of February. There was frost on the trees; the steps to the towpath were slippery. My parents didn’t like me walking by the canal on my own, but I loved the stillness. I could almost pretend I was in our little Yorkshire village – not the city they had uprooted us to. I still resent them for that.

My breath misted in the air as I approached the Bradwell aqueduct. It was early enough that the road below was silent, the only sound my own footsteps on the concrete. I paused to lean over the railing. The structure was still new, completed just two years ago to allow for the latest of the grid roads. I didn’t understand it at the time: surely it would be easier for the road to go over the canal. But, here we are, one thousand seven hundred tons of concrete later.

There were no boats on the aqueduct, so I had a clear view along the length of the canal. Towards the far end I could see what looked like a white sheet, snagged on the opposite path and partially submerged in the still water. It was only when I drew closer that I realised what I was looking at.

The white sheet was a dress – no, not a wedding dress. Nothing so dramatic. A simple shift dress, not unlike a nightgown, with delicate blue embroidery around the neckline. I couldn’t see the hem; weighed down by the saturated fabric, only her head and shoulders were fully visible.

Her hair was strawberry blonde, hints of copper catching the morning light as it drifted in a halo around her pale face. There was a dusting of freckles across her nose and her cheeks, the only colour on that icy skin. Her lips were slightly parted, the corners tilted in an almost-smile. It made her look wistful, her closed eyes giving the impression of slumber.

I gazed at her beautiful face, mesmerized. Perfect and peaceful. I felt connected to her in a way I couldn’t comprehend. A girl out of place, a Rose Connelly without her willow garden.

The sudden roar of a car speeding below me snapped me back to myself, the strains of a half-remembered ballad echoing in my head.