The girl walked too close to the hedges, brushing her sleeve against damp leaves as she went. She did it without thinking — the way she always did along Combs Ford, keeping herself narrow, careful not to take up more pavement than necessary. The houses were quiet, their windows glowing softly, curtains half-drawn. Somewhere inside, a television laughed.
She carried her notebook under one arm. Not hugged. Just held there, like something she might need later.
The air was colder than it looked. Each breath left a pale mark in front of her face before disappearing. She counted her steps between the streetlights. Fourteen. Thirteen. She forgot and had to start again.
She should have left earlier.
Her shoe caught on a raised crack in the pavement. She corrected herself automatically, annoyed. Her sister always said she walked like she was apologising.
Footsteps.
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They didn’t rush at first.
That was what made her stop.
The sound came again — heavier this time, uneven, following rather than chasing. She slowed, one foot angling toward the kerb, as if she might decide later whether to step off it.
“Oi.”
The word hit the parked cars and came back wrong, stretched thin.
She turned.
The older girl was already there — closer than she should’ve been. Blonde hair loose, coat hanging open despite the cold. Her face looked tight, pulled into a shape it didn’t quite hold, eyes too bright, mouth already trembling with something that wasn’t fear.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the older girl snapped.
The girl on the pavement searched for the right answer. None of the ones she tried in her head fit properly.
“I’m going home,” she said.
The older girl laughed — sharp, humourless. She stepped forward, and the space between them vanished. The smaller girl leaned back without thinking and felt the edge of the kerb under her heel.
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“Don’t play stupid with me,” the older girl said. “After today? You think you can just walk off?”
“I didn’t—” The sentence broke apart. She tried again. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“Bullshit.”
The older girl lifted a hand, palm out — not touching her, but close enough that the girl could smell her perfume. Something sweet and heavy that didn’t belong in the cold.
“You fucked everything,” she said. “Do you have any idea what you did to me?”
The girl’s elbow pressed into the car behind her. Cold metal bled through her sleeve. She wondered, briefly and irrationally, whether the alarm would go off if she leaned harder.
“I just wanted to help,” she said.
The words sounded wrong as soon as she said them.
The older girl’s face twisted. “Help?” she repeated. “You humiliated me.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You don’t get to decide what you meant,” the older girl shouted. “You don’t get to fix people and walk away like you’re better than everyone else.”
A light flicked on in one of the houses. Somewhere, a gate banged shut.
The older girl glanced down the street, then back again, jaw working like she was chewing something sharp.
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“My parents grounded me,” she said. “Suspended. Like I’m some kind of psycho.” Her voice cracked. “You think I won’t make you pay for that?”
The shove came suddenly. Not violent. Careless.
The girl stumbled sideways, her shoulder hitting the car door with a hollow clang that sounded far too loud. Something slipped from under her arm and hit the pavement.
Her notebook lay open at her feet. A page lifted in the breeze. Then another.
For a moment, everything narrowed to that — the way the paper moved, hesitant, like it was deciding whether to leave.
She bent down too fast. Her fingers didn’t work properly. The notebook slid against the concrete, scraping. She shoved it into her bag without checking the page.
“Don’t you fucking run from me,” the older girl said.
She ran anyway.
Her trainers skidded on damp ground. The street tilted, lights stretching into long orange smears. Her breathing came out wrong — too quick, too shallow — and she couldn’t remember how to fix it.
Behind her, the footsteps were faster now.
“STOP!”
The shout broke halfway through. That surprised her more than the volume.
She crossed the road without looking.
That was when the sound came.
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A low roar, rising fast — too loud, too close. White light spilled across the pavement, flooding the street in a way the lamps never did. For a second, everything was bleached and unreal.
She thought of ice. Of slipping.
A hand grabbed her sleeve and yanked.
She spun, off-balance, the world snapping back into place too suddenly.
“LOOK AT ME!”
The older girl’s face filled her vision. Her grip hurt. Not badly. Enough.
“I didn’t mean to,” the girl said — though she wasn’t sure what that meant anymore.
“You think you’re better than me,” the older girl said, the words tumbling out wild and fast. “You think you can just fix things and walk away.”
“I was just—”
The movement was wrong. Too quick. Not aimed.
Something hit her face.
There was no pain at first. Just light — white and loud — like standing too close to something breaking. The pavement surged upward, then vanished.
She reached out.
Her hand closed on nothing.
The streetlight flared overhead — too bright, too close —
—and then there was no street at all.
————
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A sharp breath tore out of her.
The girl jolted upright, palms scraping against rough pavement. Pain flared across her cheek — hot, immediate — and she sucked in another breath too fast, her ribs refusing to expand properly.
She sat there for a moment, dizzy, the world lagging behind her eyes.
She wasn’t in the road.
She was on the pavement, half-curled against the kerb, like someone had hauled her out of the way and left her there.
Her heart slammed.
“I don’t…” she whispered. “I don’t know how I got here.”
The rest wouldn’t come.
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The street lay quiet. Too quiet. Rows of houses stared back at her, windows dark, curtains drawn. A streetlamp buzzed overhead, the sound needling into her skull.
She pushed herself up on shaking arms.
Her backpack wasn’t there.
She turned slowly, scanning the pavement, the gutter, the edge of the road.
Nothing.
Her phone.
Her inhaler.
Her notebook.
Her chest tightened instinctively. She pressed a hand flat against it, breathing shallow until the panic ebbed.
Her stomach hollowed out.
“She took it,” she said, more certain than she wanted to be. The thought lodged hard in her chest. Not the violence — that she could almost understand — but Lexi’s hands on her things. On the notebook.
She swallowed and stood, unsteady. The ground felt slightly tilted, like she was walking on a slope she couldn’t see.
The cold bit through her hoodie. She dragged her sleeves down and started walking, slow at first, testing each step. Her breathing followed her — thin, uneven, too loud in her ears.
She glanced back once.
The street was empty.
She kept going.
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The fence on the corner caught her attention — paint peeling in long curls that scraped faintly in the breeze. She frowned. She was sure that fence had been solid blue. The colour underneath looked sun-bleached, old.
She moved on.
A hanging basket sagged above one of the porches, soil grey and cracked. No flowers. Just dead stems rattling softly against the brick.
She didn’t comment on it this time. She just walked faster.
Her shoes sounded wrong on the pavement — quieter than they should’ve been. She lifted one foot, then the other, watching them land, making sure they were real.
A fox burst from behind a bin and she gasped, hand flying to her chest. The fox vanished down the road without looking back.
The streetlamp flickered.
The buzzing grew louder.
She broke into a half-run, then slowed again when her chest protested sharply. She pressed her sleeve to her cheek, wincing. Her fingers trembled, so she rubbed them together, small repetitive movements, grounding herself the way Tessa had taught her.
Just get home.
Just get inside.
She reached the bend where the road dipped toward the footbridge. The river should’ve been louder here. It always was.
Tonight it sounded far away. Like it had been wrapped in cloth.
The houses thinned. The pavement narrowed.
One of the windows on the left was boarded up.
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She slowed, staring at it. Her mind tried to place it — last week, last month — and failed. The board looked weathered, edges splintered, like it hadn’t been touched in years.
Her head ached.
Don’t think about it.
She kept walking.
When she turned onto her street, the cold deepened, settling between her ribs. Her breathing had shrunk to short, careful puffs. Everything felt slightly off-centre, like she was walking through a version of the road that had been left out too long.
Her house waited at the end, hunched under the streetlamp.
The walls looked greyer. The front garden had grown wild, brambles creeping across the path, thorny and unchecked. She stopped at the gate, staring.
“...That’s not right,” she whispered.
She didn’t know what scared her more — that it looked wrong, or that part of her wondered if it had always looked like this and she’d just never noticed.
She pushed through the overgrowth, scraped her sleeve on thorns, and fumbled the key into the lock. The door resisted, as always. She leaned her shoulder into it until it groaned open.
Warm air spilled out.
She stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind her.
The streetlamp buzzed once more outside —
then fell silent.
————
The hallway smelled... different.
Not awful—just heavy.
Like stale laundry mixed with sweet, old fruit.
The kind of smell that made her want to breathe through her mouth without drawing attention to it.
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She stepped inside and closed the door with a soft click.
“I’m home!” she called, voice wobbling slightly.
Her words echoed strangely, bouncing off the walls like the house was emptier than usual.
She kicked off her shoes, nearly tripping when one bounced off a stack of magazines beside the radiator—magazines she didn’t remember being there—and walked toward the kitchen, rubbing her arms.
Her cheek throbbed with each step.
The kitchen light was on, but dim—an old yellow bulb that flickered occasionally, humming in an uneven rhythm. The room was messy in a way she wasn’t used to: plates stacked in the sink, newspapers piled on a chair, a half-empty bottle on the counter, crumbs scattered across the worktop like snow.
Her stomach twisted.
She pushed the feeling away.
“Mum?” she tried again, softer this time.
Nothing.
She pulled open the breadbin, grabbed the loaf, and set it down with clumsy hands. Her fingers still trembled. She got the butter and realised it was the last of it and spread it onto a slice of bread, the knife scraping louder than she expected.
“Mum…”
She hesitated, then added, quieter,
“We’re out of butter.”
A crash rang out upstairs.
She flinched so hard the knife slipped and smeared butter across the counter.
“Mum?” she called, voice higher. “Are you... are you okay?”
Silence.
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Her breathing tightened. She stood frozen for a moment, the butter knife hanging loosely in her fingers. She imagined Mum tripping on something—maybe the laundry pile, maybe her own feet—and tried to calm herself.
“Do you need help?” she called, louder this time.
No answer.
She took a small step toward the hallway, then stopped again. Something felt wrong. Not scary—just... not how things were supposed to be.
She swallowed, went back to the counter, and spread the butter again, slower this time. Her mind kept drifting to the crash, to the silence that followed, to the strange smell, to the way the house felt older somehow.
Then—footsteps on the stairs.
Slow ones.
Uneven.
Soft.
Relief washed over her so suddenly she sagged against the counter for a moment, exhaling shakily.
“Good,” she breathed. “You scared me.”
She placed a slice of ham on the bread and nudged the crusts into place, obsessively neatening the edges because neat things made her feel steadier. Her cheek pulsed again; she rubbed it with the back of her sleeve, wincing.
She didn’t look toward the corridor until she felt someone standing there.
When she turned, her mother was at the doorway.
The girl blinked.
Then blinked again.
Mum looked... wrong.
Not sick.
Not hurt.
Just different.
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Her hair was tangled and uneven, flattened on one side as if she’d been lying on it for hours. She wore an old stretched jumper she never used to wear—at least not outside her bedroom—and her joggers were wrinkled, with a tear near the knee. Her face was pale, the skin under her eyes darker than Skye remembered, and her lips parted like she was trying to breathe without making a sound.
She stared at her daughter as if she were a ghost.
Skye didn’t notice immediately. She was too busy scooping up the sandwich.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, not looking up yet. “Something happened.”
She touched her cheek again.
“Lexi… Lexi Kingsley. She chased me from the bus stop.”
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A breath.
“She hit me.”
Another pause, longer this time.
“My bag’s gone. My phone.”
Her voice dropped.
“And my notebook.”
She paused, brain catching up.
“Oh! But I think she pulled me off the road when I passed out. ’Cause when I woke up I wasn’t in the middle anymore. So... yeah. That was weird.”
She turned.
And finally saw her mother’s face properly.
“...Mum?” she asked, voice small. “You... look kind of... I dunno. Are you okay?”
Her mother’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
Her hands trembled.
Her shoulders shook.
When she finally found her voice, it sounded thin and cracked:
“N-nothing’s wrong, Skye.”
Skye froze.
Something in her stomach dropped.
“You never call me that,” she said slowly. “You... you only call me Sam.”
Her mother didn’t answer.
She stepped forward instead, like she didn’t trust her own legs, and cupped Skye’s face in both hands. Her thumbs brushed lightly over Skye’s cheeks, tracing the hurt one as if memorising it. She ran her fingers through Skye’s hair, down her arms, over her shoulders—touches that were gentle but shaky, almost frantic.
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Then she pulled Skye into a hug.
A long one.
A tight one.
The kind that felt like a person scared of letting go.
At first Skye didn’t move.
Then she melted into it, resting her cheek against her mother’s shoulder. The fabric smelled like old fabric softener and something else beneath it—something sharp and sad.
It felt safe.
Warm.
But strange, too.
Her mother didn’t usually hold her like this.
When the hug ended, her mum wiped her eyes quickly—too quickly—and stepped back.
Skye lifted her sandwich, took a small bite to avoid staring, and cleared her throat.
“I’m gonna... um... have a shower,” she said. “I feel gross.”
Her mother nodded too fast, like agreeing was the safest thing she could possibly do.
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Skye took another shaky bite, turned toward the hallway, and began walking upstairs—slowly, each step making her more aware of how quiet the house felt behind her.
Something wasn’t right.
She didn’t know what.
But she felt it in her stomach, in her ribs, in the way the hum of the kitchen light followed her like a whisper.
She just kept climbing the stairs, sandwich in hand, her mind a blur of confusion.
She hoped the shower would make everything feel normal again.
The stairs creaked in all their usual places, except the sounds felt louder tonight, echoing strangely against the faded walls. Skye dragged her sleeve across her cheek, wincing when it brushed the bruise. Her legs were sore, her eyes were stinging, and everything felt wrong in that fuzzy, underwater way that meant she was too tired to figure anything out properly.
Halfway up, she squinted.
Her glasses were missing.
She touched her face, checked her pockets out of habit—even though she wasn’t wearing anything with pockets—and frowned. She must’ve dropped them when Lexi shoved her. Great. Everything would be blurry now.
She kept walking, one hand sliding along the banister. The wood felt rougher than she remembered, like it hadn’t been varnished in ages. A spiderweb brushed her wrist.
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“Mum definitely hasn’t cleaned up here,” she muttered, rubbing it off quickly.
At the top of the landing, she noticed more changes. The wallpaper near her mother’s door was peeling slightly. The carpet had worn patches. A laundry basket overflowed with clothes she didn’t recognise—shirts that didn’t look like Mum’s, jeans that were too big, socks that looked... greyish?
Skye swallowed, shaking her head.
Later. She’d deal with it later.
After the shower.
The bathroom door stuck slightly before clicking open. She slipped inside, closing it behind her with a soft thud.
The bathroom felt familiar at first — blue tiles, milky light, the smell of old shampoo — but the counter was wrong. Cleaner, somehow. Too bare.
Her toothbrush wasn’t in the cup.
She stared at the empty space for a moment, blinked hard, then shrugged it off.
“Mum probably moved it. Or it fell. Whatever.”
She was too exhausted to care. She peeled off her clothes, avoiding the mirror so she wouldn’t have to see the bruise, and stepped into the shower. The water sputtered, coughed, then warmed to a soft stream.
As soon as the heat hit her shoulders, her muscles melted. She sighed, letting her forehead rest against the tile. Everything blurred in the steam—even more blurred without her glasses—until the world felt soft, indistinct, almost safe.
But then—
The front door slammed.
Her eyes snapped open.
The water kept running, muffling the sounds, but she heard voices underneath it. Raised. Harsh. One of them was her mother’s.
“No—please—please, Tessa, just... let me—let me explain—”
Skye straightened, heart thudding. Mother never begged. Not like that.
She held still, dripping, listening.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Heavy. Fast.
Her breath hitched.
“Mum?” she called through the curtain. “Are you okay?”
A knock hit the bathroom door — too quick, too sharp.
Before she could respond, the door creaked open.
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Tessa stood there.
And Skye blinked hard, because her sister looked... wrong. Wrong in ways Skye couldn’t name all at once. Taller? Older? Hair longer and dyed at the ends? Clothes she’d never seen before — a cropped black top under an oversized denim jacket, ripped jeans, makeup she’d never have been allowed to wear to school.
Skye squinted, trying to sharpen the blur without glasses.
“Tes?” she croaked. “Uh... can I borrow a towel? Mine’s all damp.”
Tessa didn’t speak.
She didn’t even move.
She stared at Skye like someone seeing a ghost they didn’t believe in. Her mouth parted, but no sound came out.
Their mum appeared behind her, pale and trembling, hands gripping the doorframe.
“Sweetheart,” Mum breathed, voice breaking. “You okay? Need anything?”
“I’m fine,” Skye said automatically, even as cold worry curled around her stomach. “Just showering.”
Her mother nodded — too fast, too stiff — and tugged Tessa’s arm.
“Come on, love.”
Tessa didn’t budge.
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Tessa’s mouth moved again.
No sound came out.
Mum pulled a little harder.
Tessa finally stepped back, eyes still locked on Skye as though she couldn’t tear them away.
The door clicked shut.
Skye stood there a moment, shivering even under the warm water.
“What is going on?” she whispered.
She finished quickly, dried off with Tessa’s towel, brushed her teeth with her finger and a smear of toothpaste, rubbed water from her hair, and went to her room.
Her room looked like her room.
Same posters on the wall.
Same fairy lights draped above the window.
Her bed made neatly with her favourite lilac duvet.
Her stuffed rabbit sitting on the pillow, slightly worn at the ears.
But everything felt... too placed, like someone had rushed to make it perfect.
Her notebooks were stacked too neatly.
Her pen jar didn’t have the usual crooked lean.
The dust on the shelf was gone.
And the air smelled faintly of cleaning spray.
That must’ve been the rustling earlier.
She changed into her pyjamas slowly, feeling the unease settling deeper, like a stone dropping through water.
A soft knock tapped at her door.
“Skye?” her mother called.
Skye’s stomach fluttered.
“Yeah... come in.”
The door opened.
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Mum entered, followed by Tessa — who, now that Skye saw her properly, made Skye’s heart jump into her throat.
Tessa wasn’t different.
She was older.
Not “new hairstyle” older.
Not “bad lighting” older.
Older.
Skye stepped back instinctively.
“Tes... what... what happened to you? You look—”
Tessa didn’t let her finish. She crossed the room in three strides and wrapped Skye in a hug so tight it squeezed the breath out of her. Her shoulders shook. Her breath trembled against Skye’s neck.
“I’m sorry,” Tessa sobbed. “I’m so sorry, Skye. I shouldn’t have— I should’ve been there— I—”
Skye froze.
Tessa never hugged like this.
Never cried like this.
“I... I love you,” Tessa choked out, voice cracking open.
Skye lifted her arms slowly and hugged back.
“I love you too, but—Tessa, this is weird. You’re acting weird. Mum’s acting weird. And you look... different. Everything looks different.”
Tessa pulled back, wiping her face.
Skye’s voice rose, shaking.
“The street is different. The house is a mess. You look—older, Tessa. Mum keeps calling me Skye and she never calls me Skye and—and—what happened? What is going on?”
Silence.
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A heavy, suffocating silence.
Tessa glanced at Mum.
Mum inhaled shakily, then knelt until she was eye level with Skye.
Her hands trembled as she reached for Skye’s.
“Sweetheart...” she whispered. “There was... an accident.”
Skye’s breath caught.
“You and Lexi were running,” her mother whispered. “There was a car. You were both... hit. You didn’t...”
Her voice cracked.
She tried again, tears gathering at her lashes.
“You didn’t get up.”
Skye stared at her, the words sliding through her ears without meaning.
“Five years,” Mum whispered. Her voice broke completely. “You’ve been gone for five years.”
Tessa began crying again behind her.
But Skye didn’t move.
She didn’t blink.
She barely breathed.
Her mother swallowed, choking on the last truth—raw, jagged, impossible.
“You... you died, Skye.”
The world stopped.
Everything stopped.
And for the first time, Skye felt the cold in her bones.
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and then Add to home screen.