Alice didn’t remember choosing the route.

  One moment she was walking home, counting paving slabs the way she always did when her chest felt tight. The next, the iron gates were in front of her—tall, slick with rain, their hinges breathing out a low metallic sigh when she pushed them open.

  The cemetery sat just beyond the edge of town, where the streetlights thinned and the houses gave up pretending they belonged together. Old ground. Older stones. The path curved gently downhill, gravel dark and wet, each step crunching too loud in the quiet, like the place was listening for her.

  The motion lights flickered on in patches as she passed—late, uneven. One stuttered, then steadied. Another stayed dark entirely, leaving a hollow pocket of shadow that tugged at her peripheral vision.

  She slowed.

  Then she saw him.

  Dad stood a few paces back from the headstone, exactly where he always stood. Never directly in front of it. Never touching.

  Hands tucked into the pockets of his flying jacket, shoulders squared into something that resembled composure if you didn’t look too closely. His hands stayed buried in his jacket pockets longer than usual, like he didn’t trust them with anything that could be dropped.The jacket looked heavier now. The patches more worn. Grey threaded his beard in a way that hadn’t been there the last time she’d stood beside him here. Or maybe she’d just refused to see it.

  He didn’t turn when she approached.

  “Town’s losing its mind,” Alice said, stopping beside him. Her voice sounded wrong in the open air—flattened, like it had travelled too far to reach her. “Lights going out all over. Dogs kicking off.”

  Dad breathed out through his nose. Not a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

  “Figures,” he said. “Even the grid’s had enough.”

  He answered her without looking at her, eyes fixed on the dark between the stones, as if attention itself might invite questions he couldn’t afford.

  She crouched and brushed damp leaves away from the base of the stone with her sleeve. The name caught the misfiring light in flashes—bright, then dull, then bright again—like it couldn’t decide how visible it wanted to be.

  SKYE HARPER

  Beloved Sister, Beloved Daughter, Beloved Friend.

  Seeing it still did something to her chest. Not a sharp pain. A slow tightening. Like something closing.

  “You heard about tomorrow,” she said.

  Dad nodded once. Sharp. Contained.

  “Yeah.”

  The word settled between them and stayed there.

  Alice remained crouched longer than she needed to, fingers numbing as water soaked through her sleeve. She pressed them into the gravel until the ache pushed back, grounding her. When she stood, the world tipped just enough to make her reach out.

  Dad noticed.

  “You eaten?” he asked, like it mattered. Like it was still possible to take care of people this way.

  “Not really.”

  “Mm.”

  Along the far fence, the lights flickered again—slower this time. One dimmed to a weak amber, then died completely. The darkness it left behind felt heavier than the rest of the night, like something had folded itself into that space.

  Dad glanced toward it before he could stop himself. His jaw tightened.

  “Power company’s really earning their keep tonight,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Alice replied, though her pulse had started to climb.

  They stood there without looking at the stone anymore.Dad kept his hands buried in his pockets. She knew why now. If he took them out, they’d shake. He’d never said it. He didn’t need to.

  “She still won’t come,” Alice said.

  Dad inhaled as if to say something else, then stopped himself. His shoulders lifted and fell again, smaller this time.

  “She can’t,” he said quietly. “And you know that.”

  “I know.” The words came sharper than she meant. “Doesn’t mean I have to accept it.”

  “No.”

  The silence pressed instead of soothing. Leaves rattled overhead, then stilled too quickly, as if something had passed through and taken the sound with it. The motion lights blinked again, struggling, then steadied.

  Alice’s chest tightened.

  “You ever think about stopping?” she asked suddenly. “The flying. The running into the sky whenever it gets too heavy down here.”

  Dad didn’t answer straight away.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was different—lower. Less armoured.

  “Every day.”

  She turned to look at him properly.

  “Then why don’t you?”

  He pulled one hand from his pocket and dragged it over his beard.

  “Because if I stop,” he said, “there’s nothing left to distract me from remembering—.”

  The words landed hard.

  Alice swallowed. She hadn’t known that. Or maybe she had, and had avoided it on purpose.

  She stepped into him without asking.

  He stiffened for a heartbeat—habit—then his arms came up around her, careful but firm. His hand rested at the back of her neck, warm and steady. Up close, she felt it — not just tiredness, but strain, like he’d been holding something in place for hours and didn’t know how much longer it would stay put.

  They stood like that while the lights flickered and steadied and flickered again.

  Somewhere deeper in the cemetery, the air shifted.

  Not a sound. Not footsteps.

  A displacement. Like space itself had been nudged aside.

  Alice pulled back slightly. “Did you feel that?”

  Dad didn’t answer immediately.

  Then, quietly: “Yes.”

  That was new.

  He scanned the dark now with a pilot’s precision—measuring distance, threat, probability. Nothing moved. The night resumed its ordinary sounds too quickly, like it was trying to cover something up.

  “Probably nothing,” he said.

  But his hand didn’t leave her shoulder.

  They turned to leave.

  As they did, a voice surfaced in Alice’s mind.

  Not words.

  Not something she could repeat.

  Just the tone.

  Be... kind.

  The thought didn’t belong here—among damp stone and flickering lights and the weight of names that didn’t change. It made no sense in a place where nothing ever came back.

  That frightened her more than if it had.

  Alice followed Dad toward the gate.

  Neither of them looked behind.

  The light above the path dimmed once more, then steadied.

  Neither of them commented on it.

  Gravel shifted as Dad turned away from the grave, already angling toward the gate, when Alice’s phone vibrated in her hand.

  Once.

  Then again.

  She stopped walking.

  The glow from the screen felt too bright against the dark, lighting her palm a sickly white.

  Mom

  Her chest tightened instinctively, sharp and familiar—like pressing on a bruise you pretend isn’t there.

  She hadn’t spoken to Mom properly in months. Not without raised voices. Not without something breaking and being blamed on someone else. Her thumb hovered over the screen, unwilling.

  Dad noticed immediately.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer.

  The phone buzzed again—longer this time, insistent, like someone holding it down and refusing to let go.

  Alice exhaled through her nose and answered.

  “What.”

  Breathing filled her ear.

  Too close to the phone. Too fast. Like Mom had been running—or pacing.

  “Alice?“Mom’s voice didn’t sound angry. That was the first wrong thing. It was thin. Strained. Stretched tight. “Alice, I—I don’t know what’s happening.”

  Alice closed her eyes.

  “Mom,” she said flatly. “It’s late.”

  “I know,“Mom said quickly. Too quickly. “I know that. I just— I thought it was shock. Or exhaustion. Or— I don’t know. I thought if I waited it would make sense.”

  Dad took a half step closer. Alice lifted a hand—not yet.

  “What would?” she asked.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Mom let out a breath that tried to become a laugh and failed halfway. “I haven’t slept,” she said. “I know how that sounds. I know what you’re thinking. But this isn’t like before. This isn’t—”

  Her voice broke.

  “Things don’t line up.”

  The words landed heavier than they should have.

  Behind Alice, the cemetery lights flickered in a slow wave, then steadied again.

  “Things never line up for you,” Alice said, sharper than she meant. “That doesn’t mean—”

  “Alice.”

  Not angry.

  Terrified.

  “Please don’t do that,“Mom said. “Not right now.”

  Silence stretched across the line. Thick. Intentional.

  Dad leaned in, his voice low. “What is she saying?”

  Alice shook her head without looking at him. “I don’t know.”

  Mom’s breathing grew uneven. “I tried not to say anything,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to scare her. I didn’t want to make it worse. I thought if I just let the night pass—”

  “Her who?” Alice snapped.

  Silence.

  Too long.

  “I just need you here,“Mom said finally. “I can’t do this on my own.”

  Alice pulled the phone away, staring at the dark screen as if it might clarify itself.

  “This is grief,” she said aloud, more to herself than to Dad. “This is guilt. Or a breakdown. Or—”

  “Alice,“Mom whispered. “I’m scared.”

  That was what broke it.

  Mom didn’t plead. She accused. She raged. Fear—quiet, stripped, unguarded—was new.

  Dad watched Alice carefully, reading the shift in her face.

  “You don’t have to go,” he said. “I can call someone. A doctor. We can—”

  “No,” Alice said immediately. “You don’t call people about this.”

  Mom was crying now. Not loud. Just leaking sound, like she’d run out of energy to hold it in.

  “Alice. Please.”

  Alice squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Fine.”

  She hung up.

  “Fuck,” she breathed.

  Dad didn’t hesitate. “I’ll drive.”

  They moved quickly toward the gate, gravel crunching too loudly beneath their steps. The lights lagged behind them, switching on late, like they were unsure where to land. The night felt alert—too still, like it was listening.

  In the car, Alice stared out the window, phone clenched tight in her hand.Dad’s grip on the wheel was rigid, knuckles pale.

  “Whatever this is,” he said quietly, “we don’t face it alone.”

  “Yeah,” she said, though every instinct in her body screamed to turn around.

  The radio crackled—static bursting through—then corrected itself. The dashboard clock blinked and reset.

  When the house came into view, Alice’s breath caught.

  Every light was on.

  Upstairs. Downstairs. Even the hallway that used to stay dark unless someone was moving through it.

  Her phone buzzed again.

  She didn’t answer.

  Dad slowed, stopping short of the hedge. The headlights washed weakly over brambles choking the path like they’d been left to do whatever they wanted.

  “I’ll wait,” he said. “You say the word.”

  Alice nodded. She leaned back in, hugged him—brief, clumsy—then pushed the door open before she could change her mind.

  She didn’t see him wipe his eyes.

  The house leaned under the streetlamp’s glow. The pebble-dash looked duller. Greyer. The green door chipped, paint worn thin. The garden had gone wild—nettles, brambles, neglect threading everywhere.

  No one had told it to stop.

  Alice shoved through, thorns catching at her jacket.

  The house waited.

  She didn’t remember shutting the car door.

  Just the damp air biting her cheeks as she crossed the front garden, brambles snagging the hem of her jacket, the path half-swallowed by weeds. The house was lit like a mistake—every room blazing, curtains half-drawn, the old netting in the windows turning the light into a milky glare.

  She hit the door too hard. It rattled in its frame.

  The lock gave on the second twist.

  Warmth rushed out—stale warmth, trapped. The kind you got when a place had been shut up too long. It carried the sour edge of something old in the sink, the sweet sting of cheap wine, and that damp-plaster smell Suffolk houses got when the weather sat on them for weeks.

  Alice stepped inside and let the door slam behind her.

  “I’m here,” she called, voice bouncing off the narrow hallway. “So whatever this is—start talking.”

  Silence answered.

  Not empty silence. The listening kind.

  The hallway looked like it had been half-lived in and half-abandoned. Magazines stacked beside the radiator in uneven towers—some glossy, some curled with age, corners swollen from damp. A pair of shoes sat by the skirting board like they’d been kicked off mid-thought. The wallpaper seam near the stairs was peeling again, a familiar strip of beige backing exposed like a scab.

  The house hadn’t changed.

  It had just... stopped trying.

  Mom stood in the kitchen doorway.

  Not looming. Not braced for an argument.

  Just there—shoulders pulled inward, hair scraped back badly, hands twisting the hem of her jumper until the fabric stretched and bunched. Her face looked washed out under the kitchen’s yellow light. Not frail. Not weak.

  Hollowed.

  The kitchen light hummed above her, a tired, electrical whine that made the air feel thinner. The sink was crowded with plates. A tea towel lay damp and abandoned on the counter. Newspapers sagged over a chair. A half-empty bottle stood by the kettle, label peeling, a sticky ring dried beneath it.

  Alice took it all in without meaning to.

  Her mouth was already forming the next sharp thing.

  “What,” she said, flat and hard, “did you drag me back here for?”

  Mom opened her mouth.

  Closed it.

  Her eyes flicked up the stairs, then back to Alice, like she was checking the house for permission.

  “Alice,” she tried. Her voice snagged, not on anger—on breath. “I didn’t— I didn’t know who else—”

  “Don’t.” The word came out louder than Alice meant. It filled the room too fast. “Don’t start.”

  Mom flinched anyway, like she’d been waiting for impact.

  Alice’s pulse thudded in her throat. She hated how familiar this felt: standing in this kitchen, braced for a fight she didn’t want and couldn’t avoid. She looked at Mom’s hands twisting fabric, the tremor in her fingers, the shine at the edge of her eyes that hadn’t spilled yet.

  “You haven’t called me in months,” Alice said, voice clipped, controlled with effort. “So don’t— don’t do the whole—” She gestured vaguely at Mom’s face. “Whatever this is.”

  Mom swallowed. The movement was visible.

  “I know,” she said. “I know. I just—”

  Her gaze flicked upstairs again.

  Alice’s stomach tightened.

  “What?” she demanded. “What are you looking at?”

  Mom’s mouth trembled. She set one hand flat on the counter like she needed the laminate to keep her upright.

  “She’s not gone,” she said, so quietly it almost didn’t register.

  Alice stared.

  A short, ugly laugh scraped out of her before she could stop it. It didn’t sound like humour. It sounded like pain pretending.

  “Right,” she said. “Okay. Sure.”

  Mom’s eyes snapped to her, raw. “Alice—”

  “No.” Alice’s voice sharpened, and she hated herself for it. “No. We’re not doing this. You don’t get to—” The words jammed. She didn’t even know what she meant by get to anymore. “You don’t get to play with that.”

  “I’m not.” Panic bled into Mom’s voice, thin and shaking. “I swear to you, I’m not.”

  Alice shifted her weight, boots squeaking faintly on the old lino. The sound was absurdly loud. The hum of the kitchen light seemed to pitch higher.

  “Then show me,” Alice said, already moving. “Let’s get it over with.”

  Mom reached for her arm—missed, hesitated, tried again. Her fingertips brushed Alice’s sleeve, barely there, as if she was afraid touch would make this worse.

  “Alice—please—”

  Alice pulled free without looking back and went for the stairs.

  Two steps at a time, anger doing what fear couldn’t.

  Halfway up, she stopped so abruptly her foot slipped on the worn tread.

  Because she heard it.

  Water.

  Not a drip. Not pipes settling. A full shower—steady rush through old plumbing, the familiar roar that used to mean Skye was taking too long and someone would bang on the door.

  It was ordinary.

  That was the problem.

  Alice’s heart slammed once, hard enough to make her vision spark.

  “That’s sick,” she shouted down, voice cracking on the second word. “You turned the shower on? You think that’s funny?”

  “I didn’t!“Mom’s answer came too fast, too high. “I didn’t touch it.”

  The water kept running.

  And then—beneath it—something softer threaded down the staircase like a ghost of a sound.

  A voice.

  “Mum?”

  A pause.

  “Are you okay?”

  Alice went cold, the way you went cold when your body decided before your mind could.

  Her hand locked around the banister. The wood bit into her palm. She couldn’t feel her fingers properly.

  “No,” she said, barely louder than breath. “No. No, you don’t get to do this.”

  Mom made a broken sound behind her, half sob and half prayer.

  Alice climbed the last steps slower now. Each one heavy. The air upstairs was warmer, thick with steam and the faint scent of cheap soap—apple-sweet and too familiar. It should have been impossible for a smell to feel like a punch.

  The bathroom door was closed. Light bled from beneath it. Steam curled out into the hallway and dampened the wallpaper.

  Alice lifted her fist and knocked once. Hard.

  Nothing.

  Her pulse roared in her ears so loud it swallowed everything else.

  She twisted the handle.

  Pushed.

  Steam rolled into her face, hot and wet, clinging instantly to her eyelashes.

  Behind the shower screen stood a small figure under the spray—hair slicked dark against her head, shoulders hunched as if the water was too hot or too loud.

  Breathing.

  Alive.

  Alice’s brain refused the image on instinct, like rejecting a bad taste. It tried to spit it out.

  But it stayed.

  Her mouth opened. Nothing came.

  Behind her,Mom’s hands gripped the doorframe.

  “Alice?” The voice from behind the screen was hoarse, casual in the way kids were when they didn’t understand what mattered yet. “Uh—can I borrow a towel? Mine’s all damp.”

  The normality of it hit harder than any miracle.

  Alice stood frozen, staring as if she could catch reality slipping—like there would be a seam, a glitch, a moment where the wrongness would show itself.

  Skye blinked at her through steam. Same eyes. Same crease between the brows. Same automatic trust.

  Mom’s voice shook behind Alice, fraying but gentle.

  “Sweetheart,“Mom said. “You okay? Need anything?”

  “I’m fine,” Skye said automatically, as if the answer was a habit. “Just showering.”

  Mom’s breath hitched.

  Alice couldn’t move. Her knees locked to keep her upright. The tile under her boots felt slick with mist.

  Mom tugged her arm.

  “Come on,” she whispered.

  Alice resisted for half a second too long—just long enough to burn the sight into herself—then stepped back.

  The door swung inward.

  The click when it closed was too loud in the narrow hallway. A hard little sound of separation.

  Steam leaked around the frame and kissed Alice’s face like something alive.

  Behind the door, the water kept running.

  And Alice stood there, shaking without permission, holding onto the only certainty she could manage:

  Whatever was happening, it was real enough to breathe.

  Which meant it could break them all over again.

  Steam crept into the hallway like a living thing, thin and damp, clinging to Alice’s clothes and skin. It fogged the picture frames along the wall, dulled the light, softened the edges of everything until the house felt blurred—as if it didn’t quite trust itself anymore.

  Alice stood where she’d stopped, heart banging against her ribs, mouth dry, hands hanging uselessly at her sides.

  Upstairs.

  Alive.

  Showering.

  The words refused to line up into anything she could hold.

  Behind the bathroom door, water continued to rush through the pipes—steady, ordinary, unbearable.

  Her knees gave a little. Not enough to drop her, just enough to force her back against the wall. She slid down until she was sitting on the cold floorboards, spine pressed to wallpaper she remembered peeling years ago. The hallway felt too narrow now. Like it had drawn its shoulders in.

  The house made small sounds around her: pipes ticking, wood settling, the soft hiss of steam seeping under the door.

  Mom sat on the bottom step, rocking forward and back in short, unconscious motions. Her hands were clasped together so tightly the skin over her knuckles had gone pale.

  “Oh God,” she whispered again. Then again, quieter. “Oh thank God.”

  She tipped forward, forehead resting against the banister, shoulders trembling as the words broke apart in her throat. “I’m not seeing things. I’m not. I’m not.”

  Alice watched her, numb.

  “No,” she said finally. The word came out hollow, barely attached to breath. “This doesn’t happen.”

  Mom looked up at her, eyes red and bright in a way that made Alice think of glass under strain.

  “She walked in,“Mom said, like she was reciting something fragile so it wouldn’t shatter. “Just came through the front door and shouted she was home.”

  Alice swallowed. Her tongue tasted like metal.

  “She went straight into the kitchen,“Mom continued. “Didn’t even look at me properly. Opened the fridge. Made herself a sandwich.”

  “A sandwich,” Alice repeated, quietly.

  “Ham,“Mom said. A strange, broken almost-laugh tugged at her mouth. “She complained there wasn’t any butter. As if that was the worst thing that had happened.”

  The detail hit harder than anything else. Alice’s chest tightened painfully.

  “She said she was sorry she was late,“Mom went on. “She said something happened on the way home. A girl—Lexi Kingsley—chased her. Hit her.” Mom lifted her hand, touching her own cheek without realising. “She had a bruise, Alice. Right here. She said she thought she’d just been knocked out.”

  Alice closed her eyes.

  “She woke up,“Mom whispered. “That’s all she remembers. She doesn’t know anything else.”

  Upstairs, the shower cut off.

  Both of them flinched.

  Alice’s heart lurched, then stuttered, like it couldn’t decide whether to stop or keep going.

  “She died,” Alice said. Her voice sounded wrong—too flat, too steady. “We buried her.”

  “I know,“Mom said immediately. “I know that.”

  Her breath hitched. “I held her hand. I watched them cover her. I watched them take her away.”

  Mom reached out suddenly and grabbed Alice’s wrist, fingers cold and desperate.

  “I would have thought I was hallucinating,” she said. “I would have sworn my mind had finally gone. But you saw her too.”

  Alice didn’t pull away.

  “You saw her,“Mom said again, clinging to it. “So she’s real. She has to be.”

  Her voice dropped, barely more than air. “God wouldn’t do that to me. Not again.”

  “Don’t,” Alice said quietly. “Please don’t do that.”

  “But what else is there?“Mom asked. Not angry. Just lost. “Explain it to me.”

  Alice opened her mouth.

  Nothing came.

  Upstairs, a cupboard door opened. Closed. Bare feet padded across the floorboards. Familiar. Light.

  Ordinary sounds. Impossible weight.

  “We need to make her room right,“Mom said suddenly, pushing herself to her feet. “She’ll notice if it’s not. She always did.”

  “You can’t keep this from her,” Alice said. “She’s going to ask questions.”

  “I know,“Mom said too fast. “I know that. Just—just not yet.”

  She pressed her palms to her eyes, smearing tears across her face. “She won’t cope, Alice. You know she won’t. Not with this.”

  Alice rubbed a hand over her mouth. Her head throbbed. Her chest felt hollowed out, like something essential had been scooped away and not replaced.

  “She’s going to find out,” Alice said again, quieter now. “And when she does—”

  “I’ll deal with that when it comes,“Mom said. “Please.”

  Alice hesitated.

  Then nodded.

  They moved through the house together, not speaking. Straightening what they could. Shoving what they couldn’t into cupboards. Mom fixed the bed first—tugging the corners too tight, smoothing the duvet again and again. Alice picked up a notebook she recognised and put it back exactly where it had been, heart jolting at the familiarity of the weight in her hand.

  When they stopped, Alice realised her hands were shaking.

  “Dad’s outside,” she said.

  Mom froze.

  Her mouth tightened. She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them again. “I don’t want him here.”

  “I know.”

  “But she will,“Mom said. “She’ll notice.”

  Alice nodded.

  She texted him with fingers that didn’t quite work.

  You can come in.

  Dad stepped inside moments later, careful, restrained, like the house might reject him if he moved wrong. His eyes tracked the space automatically—the stairs, the hallway, the ceiling—before settling on Mom standing too stiff by the wall.

  “Linda,” he said.

  Something passed between them — not words, not even expression. Just the quiet, exhausted look of two people who had already had a conversation no one else was allowed to hear.

  “Stay in the lounge,” Mom said quickly. “Please.”

  Dad nodded. He didn’t argue. He sat where he could see the stairs and waited, hands folded, jaw tight.

  Mom leaned in close to Alice, her voice barely audible. “Don’t tell him yet.”

  Alice nodded.

  Upstairs, a bedroom door closed.

  Skye’s footsteps crossed the floor. Light. Familiar.

  Alice stood in the hallway, listening, heart pounding as the shape of the lie settled heavy in her chest.

  For the first time since she’d opened the bathroom door, she understood something with awful clarity:

  This wasn’t just about what had come back.

  It was about what they were choosing to do next.

  Mom straightened, wiping her face with the sleeve of her jumper. She looked at Alice, eyes raw.

  “Come on,” she said. “We should go up.”

  Alice nodded, even as every part of her resisted.

  They turned toward the stairs together.

  Behind them, the house stayed quiet.

  Upstairs, Skye was alive—and waiting.