The hallway narrowed around them as they moved.

  Not physically — the walls hadn’t shifted — but Skye felt it anyway, like the house was gently closing its hands. Shoes by the door. The coat hook with the broken peg. The wallpaper seam that never quite lined up. Steps helped. If she counted them, she didn’t have to think about what came next.

  Alice’s grip tightened, then loosened. A tell.

  “There’s something,” Alice said.

  The word came out wrong, like it had been sitting under her tongue all morning and still didn’t fit.

  Skye stopped walking.

  The word something was dangerous. It didn’t have edges.

  Dad paused too, keys already in his hand. He didn’t turn yet — like he was bracing for whatever shape the word might take.

  Mum stayed by the kitchen doorway. She hadn’t followed them properly. Her weight leaned back, like if she stepped into the hall the floor might give way.

  “What?” Dad asked.

  Alice swallowed. “Yesterday morning. Before... before all this.”

  She rubbed her thumb hard against Skye’s knuckles, like she could erase the memory by wearing it down.

  Skye felt the air change. Not loud. Just thinner.

  “I was working,” Alice went on. She spoke faster now, as if speed might stop anyone from interrupting. “At the bar. And this woman came in. Older. Pale. Too neat for the place.”

  Skye’s stomach tightened. She didn’t know why yet. Her body had just decided.

  “She ordered whisky,” Alice said. “Neat. Didn’t drink it.”

  Alice swallowed again, eyes flicking to the door like the woman might be standing outside it, listening.

  Dad turned fully then.

  Mum’s fingers curled hard around the edge of the doorframe.

  “She said it was her last drink,” Alice continued. “Said she was dying. Cancer. She talked like it was already done.”

  Skye’s brain tried to put that into a category — stranger, drunk, lying — and couldn’t make it stick.

  “She kept saying things,” Alice said. “About endings. About things not staying buried.”

  Skye’s breath went shallow without asking her permission.

  Dad’s voice stayed even. Too even. “What things?”

  Alice looked at Skye.

  That was the mistake.

  “She said... to be kind,” Alice said quietly. “When you came back. That you’d be confused.”

  Silence landed wrong — not heavy, not loud. Like a room after a noise you were sure you heard.

  Skye felt cold creep up her arms.

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Mum said too quickly. The words tripped over each other. “People say awful things to feel important. That’s all that was.”

  Jolie stepped closer to Mum without touching her. Presence, not pressure.

  “Did she give a name?” Jolie asked. Calm. Practical. Like a handle you could grab.

  Alice shook her head. “No. She paid. Left. Smelled like... like hospitals.”

  That word punched through Skye’s chest before she could stop it.

  Her mind flashed white — bright lights, metal edges, a sheet pulled too high. Not a memory. Not exactly. More like her body recognising a shape it didn’t want.

  Dad noticed. His jaw tightened. He shifted his keys from one hand to the other, metal clicking too loud.

  “Hospital how?” Dad asked, too precise. “Antiseptic, or... something else?”

  “Antiseptic,” Alice said immediately. “Clean. Sharp.”

  Dad exhaled through his nose. Not relief. Calculation.

  “She knew your name?” he asked.

  “No,” Alice said. “She didn’t need it.”

  That made Skye’s stomach drop properly.

  “She said it like she was stating the weather,” Alice went on. “Like she wasn’t guessing.”

  Mum shook her head, backing up a step. “Stop it. You’re making it worse.”

  Skye hadn’t realised she was shaking until Alice squeezed her hand.

  “Hey,” Alice murmured, leaning down. “She said it. Doesn’t mean she gets to be right about anything else.”

  Skye nodded too fast. The hallway felt wrong under her feet — like staying still would let something catch up.

  Dad looked between them all, then made a decision without announcing it. The keys jingled again. Final.

  “Enough,” he said quietly. “We’re not standing here spinning stories.”

  “They weren’t stories,” Alice snapped, then immediately softened. “I’m not saying they were. I just— I didn’t want it sitting in my head.”

  Dad nodded once. Accepted it. Filed it.

  “We’ll deal with whatever that was later,” he said. “Right now we’re doing one thing at a time.”

  Steps. Skye liked steps.

  Skye took one step toward the front door — then stopped.

  Her body wanted to freeze. Just here. Just long enough that the day couldn’t move on without her permission. If she stayed still enough, maybe everything else would stop rearranging itself.

  She turned back.

  Mum stood by the counter like gravity was optional. Like her legs weren’t convinced they’d hold.

  Skye crossed the kitchen and hugged her fast and tight before she could think herself out of it.

  Mum clung for one second too long — not because she meant to, but because letting go felt like tempting something cruel.

  Skye turned away before she could see Mum’s face change again.

  Alice’s hand found hers.

  Dad opened the door.

  Cold air pushed in immediately — sharp, real, unforgiving — and Skye stepped toward it anyway, heart thudding, fingers locked tight in her sister’s.

  The house behind them felt like it exhaled.

  Not relief.

  Permission.

  ———

  Mum followed them out, wrapped in her cardigan as if fabric could hold her together. Jolie came last, quiet as a shadow, one hand hovering near Mum’s elbow in case Mum tipped.

  Skye stepped off the threshold and the old school jacket on her shoulders suddenly felt heavier.

  It wasn’t just a jacket.

  It was the jacket.

  The one that belonged to a day everyone else had kept living without her.

  Mum’s eyes flicked to it and flinched.

  “Skye,” Mum said, voice thin. She swallowed and tried again. “When you— when you’re out... could you get... different clothes?”

  Skye froze.

  “I like this one,” she said quickly, because she did. Because it still smelled faintly of pencil shavings and cold playground air. Because it was hers.

  Mum’s mouth trembled. “I know. I know. It’s just—” She pressed a hand to her own forearm, like she’d forgotten for half a second that the sleeve was down. “I can’t keep seeing it.”

  Her throat went tight.

  “Okay,” Skye muttered, hating how small it sounded. “But I choose. Not scratchy.”

  Dad nodded, relief sliding in like he’d been holding his breath. “We’ll sort it on the way. Proper stuff. You choose.”

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “I don’t like shops.”

  “I know,” he said quickly. “We’ll make it quick. No crowds.”

  Alice reached out and messed up Skye’s hair on purpose.

  Skye jerked away, startled—then a laugh slipped out before she could stop it.

  “Stop,” she said, but she was smiling, and that felt like something stolen.

  Alice grinned, tired and fierce. “You need more static. For your superhero brand.”

  “I’m not a superhero.”

  “Sure,” Alice said. “Nightskye.”

  Mum stepped forward then, like gravity had finally decided.

  She hugged Skye again.

  Not a normal hug.

  A hug with fear in it—arms locked, breath caught high in Mum’s throat.

  Skye’s cheek pressed into wool. Mum’s heart hammered fast and wrong against her.

  Skye’s own breath stalled, the old panic fluttering up like it had been waiting.

  “Mum,” Skye said, muffled.

  Mum loosened immediately, as if the word had snapped her back into her body.

  “I’m sorry,” Mum whispered, crying openly now. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

  “It’s okay,” Skye lied, because that was what stopped adults breaking.

  Jolie stepped in gently. “Linda. Breathe.”

  Mum nodded like she’d forgotten how.

  Dad unlocked the car; the cold made the metal click too loud.

  Jolie spoke low to Alice, private but not hidden. “Promise me you’re coming back.”

  “Of course.”

  “Just... promise.”

  “I promise,” Alice said. “I’m not disappearing.”

  Dad opened the back door. “Both of you. In.”

  Skye slid across the seat so Alice could sit beside her. The seatbelt felt wrong—too normal—but she clicked it anyway because clicking meant done.

  The car warmed slowly, breathing out stale heat.

  Mum stood on the pavement, arms wrapped tight. Jolie stayed close, steadying.

  Skye watched them through the rear window until the house blurred.

  Her throat prickled.

  She stared at the headrest until the feeling moved somewhere else.

  “It’s strange,” Skye said finally, because it was true and she didn’t know what else to do with truth now. “That you look older.”

  Alice’s breath caught. “Yeah. I... am.”

  Skye didn’t like the pause.

  “That must be scary,” Alice added carefully. “Like you blinked and everyone moved on without you.”

  Skye’s eyes burned. She hated it.

  “At least I didn’t have to wait for any films,” she said lightly, on purpose.

  Alice laughed, small and broken. “That’s... one way to look at it.”

  Skye squeezed her hand. Code for don’t make this bigger.

  Dad drove in silence. Thinking.

  “What are we really doing?” Alice asked.

  “We’re seeing Dr. Carter.”

  “And after?”

  Dad hesitated. “After... I want to look at her grave.”

  Skye’s stomach dropped.

  “I need something tangible,” Dad said. “Because none of this is.”

  They drove past shuttered shops. Faded signs. Empty windows. The town felt... late.

  “Lots changed,” Alice said softly.

  Skye didn’t answer.

  “Do you want to find that woman?” Alice asked carefully.

  “The one who said things?”

  Dad nodded once. “Another day. Right now we don’t chase ghosts.”

  The road curved.

  Skye knew it before she saw it—the bend, the lamps, the stretch of grass too ordinary to matter.

  Alice made a sound like air being punched from her lungs.

  “Don’t—” she whispered. “Don’t look.”

  Skye looked anyway.

  “Where was I,” Skye asked, very quiet, “when it happened?”

  Alice pointed, hand shaking.

  Skye followed her finger.

  Her stomach turned.

  “That’s where Lexi knocked me out,” Skye said quietly.

  The words landed flat. Certain.

  Alice’s breath broke.

  Skye lifted her own hand, pointing further along, to the grass verge where the ground dipped.

  “And I woke up there.”

  Dad went rigid. “You woke up off the road.”

  Skye nodded once.

  “My bag was gone.”

  “It’s at my flat,” Alice said quickly. “I read your notebook.”

  “You read it?”

  “I was going to share it,” Alice said softly. “Because you mattered.”

  Skye’s eyes burned.

  She squeezed Alice’s hand harder. Proof.

  As the road fell behind them, Skye watched the town go by and tried—quietly, stubbornly—to believe she could still belong to it.

  ———

  Linda

  Inside, the door shut on the warmth—and the people left behind had to keep breathing anyway.

  For a few seconds nothing moved.

  The TV was still dark. The blanket on the sofa lay where Skye had left it, bunched like a small animal that had been startled and then forgotten. A faint smell of buttered toast lingered from earlier, already turning stale.

  Mum stood in the hallway with her arms folded tight across her middle, as if she didn’t trust her body to stay in one piece. Her eyes stayed on the space where the car had been, even though there was only the frosted glass of the front window now.

  Jolie didn’t speak straight away.

  She took her coat off the back of the chair and didn’t put it on. She just held it for a moment, fingers worrying the fabric, then set it down again like she’d made a decision and immediately regretted it.

  Mum’s voice came out small, almost practical. “They’ll come back.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Jolie nodded once. “Yeah.”

  Mum swallowed. Her throat worked like she was pushing something sharp down. “He thinks... if he can understand it, he can control it.”

  Jolie’s mouth twitched—not a smile. A flicker of recognition. “That’s... Simon.”

  Mum exhaled, shaky. The sound didn’t turn into a sob, but it wanted to.

  “He looked at her like she was a... a problem he could solve.” Mum’s fingers dug into her sleeves. “And I looked at her and all I could see was—”

  She stopped. Her eyes squeezed shut. For a second she stood very still, as if the picture in her head had weight and she was bracing for it.

  Jolie stepped closer, careful. Not crowding. Just nearer.

  Mum opened her eyes again. They were wet, but she wasn’t crying properly—her face kept trying to hold itself in place.

  “I can’t do that again,” Mum whispered. “I can’t watch it happen again.”

  Jolie’s throat bobbed. “I know.”

  Mum’s gaze dropped to Jolie’s hands, then away again, like looking at people directly was too much right now. “You’re... you’re good with her,” Mum said, and the words sounded like they surprised her as she said them.

  Jolie let out a breath that almost laughed, then didn’t. “I’m trying to be.”

  Silence crept in around them. The kind that made every small sound feel guilty.

  Mum’s fingers went to her sleeve without thinking—thumb rubbing the edge where fabric met skin. She caught herself and stopped, as if being noticed would make it worse.

  Jolie noticed anyway.

  She didn’t point. She didn’t ask why.

  She just said, very quietly, “Are you safe right now?”

  Mum stared at the floorboards. For a moment Jolie thought she wasn’t going to answer.

  Then Mum nodded once. Barely.

  Jolie’s shoulders dropped, a fraction. Relief, but it didn’t settle. It just changed shape.

  Mum’s voice came out rough. “I didn’t do it because of... drama.”

  “I know,” Jolie said. She meant it.

  Mum’s mouth opened, closed. Her chin trembled. “It was just... quiet. After. Too quiet.” She blinked hard. “The house didn’t sound right without her.”

  Jolie swallowed. “Yeah.”

  Mum’s eyes flicked up sharply, defensive for no reason. “And now she’s back and it’s loud again and I’m still scared.”

  Jolie nodded again. “That also makes sense.”

  Mum made a small, broken sound that could’ve been a laugh if the world was different. “Nothing makes sense.”

  Jolie didn’t argue.

  Instead she turned her head slightly, listening—like she could still hear the car outside, like she could catch Skye’s voice in the walls if she tried hard enough.

  Then she said, careful as stepping over glass, “About the woman at the bar.”

  Mum’s whole body tensed. The change was immediate, visible—shoulders up, breath high, eyes wide in a way that wasn’t about Jolie anymore.

  “No,” Mum said, too fast. “No. We’re not—”

  Jolie held her hands up slightly, palms open. “I’m not saying we tell anyone. I’m not saying we make a... thing of it.”

  Mum’s eyes flicked to the front door, then back. “If we go looking—”

  “—it’ll notice,” Jolie finished softly.

  Mum flinched, like hearing her own fear repeated out loud made it more real.

  Jolie kept her voice low, steady. “Linda... Simon can be wrong about a lot. He’s stubborn and he gets tunnel vision and he thinks if he just holds it tight enough it won’t move but I do think he’s not wrong about this, just as you aren’t wrong about protecting Skye.”

  Mum’s mouth twisted. “And I’m not stubborn?”

  “You’re terrified,” Jolie said gently. “There’s a difference.”

  Mum’s eyes flashed, wet and angry. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

  Jolie’s voice cracked on the next words, and she didn’t hide it. “I don’t, that’s true.”

  Mum blinked, thrown.

  Jolie looked down at her own hands. She flexed her fingers once, as if she needed proof she was still here. “But I stood at the graveside,” she said, and the sentence came out too plain, like she’d never said it out loud before. “I watched them lower her. I watched your daughter disappear.”

  Mum’s face crumpled, fast. She turned away and pressed her forehead to the wall like it was the only thing that wouldn’t change.

  Jolie kept going anyway, voice shaking now, honest in a way she hadn’t been with the others in the room. “And I came here today because I was worried about Alice.”

  Mum’s breath hitched at the name.

  Jolie wiped at her face, annoyed at herself, then stopped pretending she wasn’t crying. “I came here because—” She swallowed. “Because I was going to propose.”

  Mum went still.

  The word sat in the air like a dropped plate that hadn’t hit the floor yet.

  Mum turned back slowly. “What?”

  Jolie gave a tiny nod, ashamed and proud at the same time. “I had it in my bag. I’d... planned it. Not fancy. Just... ours.” Her laugh came out wobbly. “And then I opened the door and she was standing there.”

  Mum stared at her like she’d been punched by a kindness she didn’t know how to take.

  Then her face folded and she made a sound that wasn’t language.

  “Oh, love,” Mum whispered.

  Jolie blinked hard. “I didn’t tell Alice. Not today. Obviously. I just... I need you to know why I’m here. Why I’m not leaving. I’m not—” She shook her head. “I’m not trying to replace anything. I’m just...”

  Mum stepped forward, then stopped—like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to move in other people’s emotions.

  “You shouldn’t have to think about rings,” Mum said, and her voice broke. “Not in my house. Not like this.”

  Jolie’s mouth trembled. “I know.”

  Mum’s eyes went down, ashamed in a different way now. “I missed so much,” she whispered. “I missed her growing up. I missed—” Her throat locked. “I missed being her mum properly.”

  Jolie didn’t rush to fill the space.

  She let Mum stand in it.

  Then Jolie said, softly, “Alice didn’t find me because you failed her.”

  Mum flinched.

  Jolie’s voice stayed gentle, but it didn’t move. “She found me because she was starving for someone to see her and not ask her to be perfect.”

  Mum’s tears finally spilled properly then, fast and helpless.

  Jolie stepped in and wrapped an arm around her—not tight, not trapping. A steady hold, like you held someone on a kerb when their legs forgot how to work.

  Mum leaned into it like she hated herself for needing it and needed it anyway.

  After a minute, Mum whispered into Jolie’s shoulder, “If we go looking for her... and it’s real... and it’s... whatever it is... what if that makes it angry?”

  Jolie closed her eyes. She didn’t pretend she had certainty.

  She chose honesty.

  “I’m scared too,” she admitted. “I’m scared of everything today. But if there’s someone out there who knew—if there’s even one thread we can follow that isn’t just fear—then I think we should.”

  Mum’s breath came in shaky bursts. “And if it notices?”

  Jolie pulled back just enough to look at her. “Then it noticed the second she walked through this door,” Jolie said quietly. “Linda... you can’t make the world unsee her by not looking.”

  Mum stared at her, horror and relief tangled together.

  Jolie softened. “We’re not going to poke it,” she said. “We’re going to ask questions like normal humans who can’t survive on not-knowing.”

  Mum’s fingers tightened around Jolie’s sleeve. “I don’t want to lose her.”

  “I know,” Jolie said. “So come with me.”

  Mum shook her head once, small. “I can’t.”

  Jolie waited a beat, then nodded toward the empty hallway. “You can,” she said. “Because you’re still here. And because she asked you to stay.”

  Mum’s breath hitched at that. She blinked hard, then once more, like she was trying to force her eyes to focus.

  Finally she whispered, “Where would we even go?”

  Jolie exhaled, careful. “To the bar. Alice’s work. Mick will be there—he knows me. We don’t need to make a scene. We just... ask.”

  Mum’s hand went to her sleeve again, then stopped. She swallowed. “What do I say?”

  Jolie’s expression softened. “You don’t have to say anything at first,” she said. “Just come. Let me talk. Let me... carry it for a bit.”

  Mum stared at the front door like it was a cliff edge.

  Then, very slowly, she nodded.

  Jolie didn’t celebrate. She didn’t rush. She just moved—practical, gentle—picking up her coat, finding her keys, the ordinary motions that made the impossible slightly less sharp.

  Mum wiped her face with the cuff of her cardigan, then paused, breath catching as she noticed the dampness on her sleeve like it was evidence of weakness.

  Jolie touched her arm lightly. “You don’t have to be tidy.”

  Mum gave a short, broken laugh. “It’s the only thing I know how to do.”

  Jolie’s mouth wobbled. “Yeah.”

  Mum glanced toward the stairs, toward the silence upstairs where Skye’s room waited like it was holding its own breath.

  Then she turned away from it—one of the hardest movements she’d made all day.

  Jolie opened the front door.

  Cold air rushed in.

  Mum flinched, then stepped forward anyway.

  On the threshold, Jolie hesitated, eyes flicking back once—toward the sideboard, toward the place her plan had been set down and left there.

  Mum followed her gaze, understood without words, and her face softened into something like grief with gratitude inside it.

  “You should still do it,” Mum said quietly. “When... when there’s room again.”

  Jolie swallowed. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I will.”

  They stepped out together and pulled the door closed behind them.

  The house fell quiet again.

  But this time, it didn’t feel like surrender.

  It felt like leaving to do something.