Skye slept like something set down carefully and not picked up again.
Not deep. Not properly. Just... paused.
Her body stayed arranged the way it had been left, as if moving might pull at something that wasn’t ready. Thoughts drifted without edges. Every so often, a sharp word or image tried to surface, but the effort of reaching it felt too loud, too heavy, and the quiet pressed back down around her.
The house kept still with her.
She woke when the chair creaked.
Not a loud creak. Just a tired one—wood giving slightly under weight. The kind of sound that happened when someone shifted without meaning to be noticed.
Skye’s eyes opened.
Morning light slipped through the curtains in pale, uneven stripes. The room looked softened, like it had been handled too much.
Alice was curled against her side.
Not loosely. Properly curled. Like Skye was something warm that might vanish if she let go. One arm lay across Skye’s middle, hand resting there with a careful pressure that shifted slightly every time Alice breathed. Her breathing wasn’t deep. It stopped. Started again. Like she was awake and pretending not to be.
In the chair beside the bed, Mum sat slumped forward, chin tipped toward her chest. Her hair had slipped loose from its clip. One sock had slid halfway off her foot. Her hand hung over the armrest, fingers curved as if she’d dropped something and forgotten to pick it up.
Skye didn’t move.
This wasn’t how mornings worked.
Mornings were noise—Mum calling up the stairs, Alice thudding around, the kettle screaming, someone already late. Mornings were sharp and fast and didn’t wait for permission.
This was different.
Careful.
Like the house was waiting to see if she would stay.
Skye stared at the ceiling.
The crack above the curtain rail was still there—the one shaped like a fork. She remembered tracing it with her eyes when she couldn’t sleep. That was good. That meant something had stayed where it was meant to be.
She held on to that.
Her chest tightened suddenly—not pain, not wheeze. Just too much inside her ribs, pressing outward.
She pressed her fingers into the centre of it. Firm. Counting the pressure. Not breathing on purpose.
Alice’s arm tightened in response, just a fraction, like she’d felt it without waking.
Skye didn’t want to move.
Not because she was scared of Alice.
Because Alice felt breakable. Like if Skye shifted wrong, something would crack and not stop.
She moved anyway. Slowly. Testing.
Alice mumbled something into Skye’s shoulder, face squashing against her, then loosened. Her hand slid away—not a choice so much as a loss of strength.
Skye slipped from the bed like she was being filmed.
One leg down. Foot to the floor.
The carpet felt rougher than she expected. Her toes curled automatically, searching for the bit that didn’t itch. Cold climbed up through the floorboards and into her ankles.
She stood.
No one woke.
At the bedroom door, she paused, listening—half-expecting someone to say her name in the wrong voice.
Nothing.
Just the quiet clicks and hums of the house doing what it did when people weren’t paying attention.
On the landing, everything looked almost right.
The wallpaper was the same—small pale flowers—but there were scuff marks along the skirting board she didn’t remember. A picture frame hung slightly crooked.
Skye lifted her hand to straighten it.
Stopped.
Lowered it again.
That didn’t matter yet.
At the end of the hall, the guest room door stood half open.
Skye frowned.
That room wasn’t used. It was for boxes and the ironing board and the vacuum cleaner that only worked if you kicked it.
She nudged the door with two fingers.
Dad lay on top of the bedcovers, still dressed. Boots off, but not set neatly aside. One arm rested across his chest like he’d fallen asleep instead of choosing to. His face was turned toward the wall. Even asleep, his jaw was tight.
Skye stared.
Dad didn’t sleep here.
A thought dropped into her stomach and settled there, heavy and certain.
Divorced. Or separated.
The word fit too easily.
She backed away and left the door open the same amount as before. That felt important. Balanced.
Downstairs, the kitchen was dim.
Morning light flattened everything it touched. The mess from last night hadn’t changed. Not better. Not worse. Just... paused. Like the house didn’t know what to do with it.
The smell lingered too—stale fabric, old warmth, something sweet gone wrong.
Skye stood there, unsure what came next.
Her chest tightened again.
She pressed the centre of it once. Hard.
She needed steps.
Cleaning had steps.
First, she needed sound.
Not the careful house-noise. Something with edges. Something that told her where she was.
The living room door stuck like it always did. She leaned into it with her shoulder until it gave.
The room smelled old and shut-in. The furniture sat wrong, like it had been moved and never forgiven for it. Curtains half-drawn. Dust caught in the light.
Mum’s old stereo sat on the sideboard, still plugged in.
Skye crouched and read the buttons carefully.
POWER.
CD.
TAPE.
RADIO.
She pressed POWER.
Nothing.
Pressed again.
A red light blinked on.
Relief moved through her too fast for something so small.
She pressed RADIO.
Static. Then a calm voice talking about ordinary things that didn’t need her attention.
Skye didn’t listen.
Her eyes went to the television above the unit.
The date glowed in the corner.
The year.
Her mouth went dry.
The feeling didn’t explode. It got pushed down—like someone sitting on it so it couldn’t move.
Skye leaned forward until her nose was almost touching the glass.
The numbers didn’t change.
Her ears began to buzz. Thin. High.
Five years.
She turned the radio off.
Silence fell hard.
Her fingers buzzed—not shaking properly. Just wrong.
She pressed her chest again.
Pressure. Not breath.
“Okay,” she said aloud.
Then, because it helped, “Cleaning.”
She switched the stereo to CD. There was already one inside.
She hesitated.
Quiet would be safer.
Quiet meant no one noticed.
But quiet let things grow teeth.
She pressed PLAY.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then music burst into the room—bright, confident, not asking permission.
Skye’s shoulders loosened.
She moved.
Not dancing. Just bouncing. Shaking thoughts loose.
She grabbed a bin bag. Started with the table. Mugs. Plates. Lined them up straight.
Straight lines helped.
She sang along with the bit she knew—soft at first, then louder.
She smoothed the throw flat. Pressed the cushions into place. Found a loose thread and worried it between her fingers until it snapped.
Heat flared.
She pressed the seam flat with her thumb and kept going.
The vacuum cord wrapped around her ankle. She hopped once, a surprised laugh slipping out before she could stop it.
She adjusted the switch until the noise dropped to something manageable.
Lines. Cross-lines.
For one moment, everything felt almost normal.
Not Thursday-normal.
Just... possible.
Then she saw them.
Alice stood in the doorway, hair tangled, eyes red and unfocused. Mum hovered behind her, one hand clamped over her mouth. Dad lingered in the hall, still, like he didn’t trust his body to move.
They were all looking at Skye.
Not angry.
Afraid to blink.
Skye slapped the stereo off.
The silence rang.
“Sorry,” she said too fast. “I didn’t know if it would wake you.”
Mum crossed the room carefully, like Skye might disappear if she moved wrong.
“You did all this,” Mum said.
Her voice wasn’t accusing. It sounded stunned.
Skye nodded. “It was messy.”
Mum touched Skye’s hair lightly.
Skye flinched.
Then stayed.
“For me?” Mum asked.
Skye nodded again. “For you. And Alice. And Dad.”
Mum pulled her into a hug that was too tight.
Skye hugged back. Mum needed it.
Alice didn’t hug. She touched Skye’s elbow with two fingers—barely there.
Dad bent slightly. “Morning, sweetheart.”
Skye hugged him around the middle.
They were all still watching her.
Like she might slip through the cracks if she moved wrong.
“Can I put the music back on?” Skye asked. “Quiet.”
A pause.
Dad nodded.
Mum nodded too quickly.
Skye pressed PLAY.
The song returned, low and careful.
Her shoulders bounced once.
The house exhaled.
Not enough.
But some.
?
The song settled back into the room, smaller now—like it had learned the rules.
Skye kept one hand on the vacuum handle anyway. The plastic was warm where her palm had been, the cord still looped in a loose curve across the carpet. The lines she’d made held, crisp and obedient. Too tidy for the way everyone stood.
Mum drifted toward the kitchen doorway with a cloth in her hand, moving because stillness was dangerous. She wiped the counter once—nothing there—then stopped, cloth hanging uselessly from her fingers. Her eyes kept sliding past Skye, like looking straight at her might make something give.
Alice perched on the arm of the sofa, folded in on herself, shoulders tipped forward. Her gaze flicked—Skye, the hall, Skye again—fast, counting.
Dad stayed near the front door. Not sitting. Not leaving. Angled toward the street, listening.
Skye’s shoulders bounced once with the beat.
No one else moved.
Then the knock came.
Soft. Careful. Too deliberate for this hour.
Skye heard it under the music and still jumped, like the sound had gone straight for her spine.
Mum froze mid-step. The cloth lifted and stayed there. Alice’s head snapped up. Dad went still in a different way—less startled, more deciding.
For a second Skye watched their faces instead of the door.
Something passed between them without words. A whole conversation done in breath and eye contact.
Another knock. Firmer.
Then a voice—muffled through the wood.
“Alice? I know you’re up.”
Skye’s stomach dropped.
Alice whispered, barely sound at all. “It’s Jolie.”
The name snagged immediately.
Not new. Not invented. A bright thread tugging at Thursday—laughter in the hallway, a voice calling Alice, a coat flung over a chair like it belonged there. Alice saying the name like she was holding something warm in her mouth.
Skye said quietly, because facts helped her stay upright, “I know that name.”
Alice’s eyes cut to her. Something sharp crossed her face—pain, warning, both.
Mum turned too quickly. “Skye, sweetheart—”
Skye’s chest tightened. Not asthma. Pressure. Like her ribs were being pressed from the inside.
“Why?” Skye asked. She needed the answer before her head made one worse.
Mum’s eyes flashed wet, then hardened, like she was bracing. “Just for a minute. Could you go into the dining room? Please.”
Skye didn’t move.
The vacuum handle stayed locked in her grip. Solid. Real.
Outside, a car door shut. Close. Too close.
Dad glanced toward the front window. “She’s parked across the road.”
Another knock, impatient now.
“Alice,” Jolie called, louder. “If you don’t answer, I’m coming round the back.”
Alice slid off the sofa—toward Skye, not away—close enough that Skye could feel her heat. Protective, urgent.
Dad said quietly, “We can’t pretend we’re not here.”
Mum took a step closer, palms half-raised. “Skye. Please.”
Shame rose in Skye’s face without a clear reason.
“I’m not—” she started, and the word caught. She didn’t have the right one. A secret. A mistake. A thing to hide.
Mum’s face cracked. “No. No, you’re not.” Then, softer and sharper all at once, “But people react. They don’t think. And if she sees you—”
Another knock. Harder.
Skye pressed two fingers into the centre of her chest.
One. Two. Three.
Pressure, not breath.
“I’ll go,” she said.
She didn’t want to. The dining room felt like a corner. But Mum looked like she might break if Skye didn’t make this easier.
Skye moved slowly toward the doorway. Alice moved with her immediately, shoulder to shoulder.
Behind them Mum hissed, “Alice—”
“I’m not leaving her,” Alice said, and it wasn’t defiance—it was fact.
Skye stopped just inside the dining room.
Not hidden. Just out of direct sight.
The room smelled of dust and old paper. The table was half-covered in folded laundry from a life Skye didn’t remember living. A single sock lay on top, abandoned mid-thought.
The music kept pulsing from the living room. Low. Cheerful. Wrong.
Mum reached for the door.
The latch clicked.
The door opened.
Jolie’s voice came first—bright, but scraped thin by worry. “Hey. I was getting freaked out. Alice didn’t answer and—”
Footsteps. Rain smell. The door closing.
Skye leaned forward a fraction, watching through the gap between the wall and Alice’s shoulder.
Jolie stood in the hall with a carrier bag in one hand and a tray of paper cups in the other. Her hair was pulled back, scarf looped tight at her neck, rain darkening her shoulders. She looked like someone who’d come quickly without fully deciding what to bring.
Her eyes went straight to Alice.
“There you are,” Jolie said. Relief, edged with accusation. “Jesus.”
Alice took a step toward her and stopped like she’d hit glass.
Skye saw her swallow.
Jolie’s smile faded—not dramatically, just enough. Her gaze moved, quick and assessing, taking in the too-straight carpet lines, Mum’s hands clenched too close to her chest, Dad’s stance by the door like a checkpoint.
“What’s happened?” Jolie asked.
Mum answered too fast. “Nothing. We’re fine. It’s just—” A laugh slipped out, wrong. “It’s been a long night.”
Jolie didn’t look convinced.
She took one step further in, then stopped, like she was waiting for permission from the room itself.
Skye’s heart thudded once.
Jolie’s eyes drifted—past Alice, past Mum—
and snagged.
Not on Skye’s face at first.
On the space.
On the shape of a person standing where there shouldn’t be one.
Skye felt it like cold water in her stomach: seen.
Jolie’s head turned.
Skye’s mind went blank and loud all at once. Don’t move. Don’t breathe.
Alice reacted instantly, stepping sideways, blocking the line of sight.
“Jolie,” she said sharply, voice cracking on the name, “don’t—”
Mum reached out, desperate. “Please—”
Dad caught her arm—not rough, not gentle. A hold that said stop.
Skye watched them try to hold the moment in place with hands.
Jolie froze.
Her face emptied, like it had lost instructions. Her eyes flicked between Alice’s body blocking, Mum’s panic, Dad’s grip.
The paper bag crumpled slightly in her fist.
“Oh,” Jolie said.
Not fear. Not anger.
The sound of a rule breaking.
Skye stepped forward.
Alice grabbed her wrist, fingers digging in hard.
Skye flinched and looked up.
Alice’s eyes were wet and furious with fear.
Don’t. Please.
Skye pressed her chest with her free hand.
Pressure. Not breath.
“I’m Skye,” she said anyway, because names were solid things. “I’m Skye.”
Alice’s grip tightened once—then loosened.
Mum made a sound that wasn’t a word. Dad’s jaw clenched.
Jolie stared.
Skye saw the moment her brain tried to reject it—tried to invent a cousin, a prank, a trick of light.
Then Jolie’s gaze dropped, briefly, to the way Skye stood too still. Too careful.
A child.
Not a trick.
Jolie set the cups down on the hall table with a careful clack, like her hands were working on a delay. She kept the bag in her other hand.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
Alice swallowed. “Since last night,” she said, because the answer was already demanding space.
Jolie repeated it softly. “Last night.”
Her breathing changed—shorter in, longer out—like she was holding herself together piece by piece.
She took a small step toward Skye, then stopped herself and crouched slightly instead, bringing herself down. Her voice gentled without turning fake.
“Hi,” she said. “Skye... can you look at me?”
Skye did.
“That’s not possible,” Jolie said, and it sounded like grief speaking through her, not judgement.
“I know,” Skye said, sharper than she meant.
Jolie nodded once, like anger was allowed here.
“I know you, you’re friends with Amelia and Alice, right?”
“You remember Amelia,” Jolie said when Skye mentioned her, voice roughening.
“She had a glitter pen,” Skye said quickly. “Purple.”
Jolie let out a breath that almost laughed and didn’t. “Yeah.”
Something in Alice loosened, just for a second.
Skye watched the way Jolie’s attention kept pulling toward Alice. The way Alice leaned without meaning to. A shape Skye understood even without words.
“You’re together,” Skye said.
Alice went still.
Mum inhaled sharply. Dad’s eyes flicked to the front window again.
Jolie waited for Alice’s nod before answering. “Yeah.”
“But you don’t live here.”
“Alice stays with me,” Jolie said. “Most of the time.”
Five years, Skye thought.
A whole life rearranged.
Jolie turned to Mum and Dad. The room shifted—less miracle, more consequence.
“You tried to hide her,” Jolie said quietly.
Mum flinched.
Dad didn’t deny it. “Because if anyone knows—”
“I know,” Jolie said. “I know what you’re scared of.”
It wasn’t comfort. It was recognition.
The carrier bag sagged open slightly as Jolie relaxed her grip.
Skye caught a glimpse inside.
A small, neat box. Tissue paper.
Jolie noticed Skye’s eyes flick there and paused. Just a fraction.
Then she breathed, steadied herself.
“Skye,” she said, practical now, anchoring, “are you feeling safe right now?”
Skye looked at Alice. Mum. Dad.
Fear took different shapes on all of them.
She looked back at Jolie.
“I don’t know.”
Jolie nodded. “That’s fair.”
Then, to Alice, quietly: “Come here.”
Alice stepped into her like she’d been balancing on nothing and finally found a wall. Jolie waited a beat before wrapping an arm around her.
Alice made a sound into Jolie’s scarf that wasn’t a word.
Mum turned away, scrubbing at her face. Dad watched the door.
Skye stood in the doorway and felt warmth—and fear of it—at the same time.
Because now someone else knew.
And secrets didn’t stay secrets.
Not in small houses.
Not when the outside world already had a place to park.
———
They didn’t call it a talk.
They didn’t need to.
It happened because the house had been holding its breath for too long.
Nearly an hour slid past without anyone naming it. The light shifted across the carpet, thinning where it had been bright. The cups Jolie brought cooled untouched, leaving pale rings on the hall table. Mum reheated the kettle once, then forgot to pour. Someone—Skye wasn’t sure who—turned the stereo off properly this time, not snapped, just quieted, like even music needed permission now.
Skye felt the hour in her body more than her head. The pressure behind her ribs eased, then crept back. Her legs tingled from standing still too long. Time was doing something again. She didn’t like not knowing what.
Dad moved first.
Not gently. Not angry. Purposeful.
He dragged a dining chair in from the table, the legs rasping over the floorboards. The sound scraped through Skye’s teeth. He set it down in the middle of the living room, angled wrong—not toward the television, not toward the window. Toward them.
Mum tried to stop him with her eyes.
It didn’t work.
Alice stayed close to Skye, shoulder almost touching hers, like she’d decided that if Skye vanished again it would have to happen through her first. She smelled faintly of laundry soap and cold air.
Jolie stood by the sofa, coat still on now, bag finally set down by her feet like she’d remembered gravity. Her eyes kept flicking to Skye and away again, as if looking too long might make Skye fragile.
The chair looked like something you sat on when adults needed answers.
Skye’s stomach tightened.
A semicircle formed without anyone saying it.
Dad took the armchair. Forearms on his thighs. Hands clasped so tightly the skin across his knuckles shone.
Mum hovered at the kitchen doorway with a mug she wasn’t drinking from. Steam rose, faded. She wiped the counter once. Then again. The counter was already clean. The wiping was for her hands.
Alice sat on the sofa. Jolie sat beside her, close but not touching at first. Their knees hovered a breath apart. Not accidental. Not decided.
Dad nodded once at the chair.
An instruction pretending to be permission.
Skye sat because everyone was looking at her, and sitting was easier than standing under that many eyes. The chair was cold through her jeans. She put her feet flat on the floor, lined them up with the edge of the rug. Straight helped.
The stereo stayed off.
That felt deliberate. Like music was too alive for what they were about to do.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
The clock in the hall ticked. The fridge hummed. Outside, a car passed slowly, tyres hissing on damp road. Dad’s eyes flicked to the window and stayed there a fraction too long.
Jolie cleared her throat. It didn’t work. She tried again, softer.
“Okay,” she said.
Her voice was careful in a way Skye recognised. Like a teacher trying not to spook a child who’d already bolted once.
Jolie didn’t look at Skye yet. She stared at the patch of carpet in front of the chair, like she needed the words to exist somewhere solid before she could lift them.
“I’m going to ask a few things,” Jolie said. “And you can tell me to stop. Anytime. That’s not... polite. That’s real.”
Skye blinked.
Adults didn’t usually offer exits like that.
She nodded anyway. Nodding was a step. Steps helped.
Mum’s mug clicked faintly against the counter as her grip tightened.
Dad’s jaw worked once. He didn’t speak, but the wanting-to pressed against the room like static.
Jolie finally looked up.
Her eyes were red at the edges—not crying-red. Tired-red. Like someone who’d been holding herself upright since a funeral and hadn’t realised she could sit down until the dead walked back into her hallway.
“I’m not asking because I think anyone’s lying,” Jolie said. “And I’m not asking for proof.” A pause, her mouth pressing thin, like she’d nearly said something worse. “I just need to ask some questions. What happened between Thursday and last night.”
Skye liked that. Not why. Not yet. Just what happened. Order.
Jolie’s gaze dropped briefly to Skye’s clothes.
“Can I ask about what you’re wearing?” she said.
Skye looked down automatically. Jeans. Socks. T-shirt. Jacket. Everything where it was meant to be.
“Yes,” Skye said. “This is what I had on.”
“The same clothes,” Jolie said slowly, “you were wearing when you—”
She stopped before the word.
The air thickened anyway.
Skye nodded. “Yeah.”
Mum made a sound like breath catching on something sharp. She turned slightly away, one hand flying to her sleeve, tugging it down like she could hide her own skin from the memory.
Dad’s eyes fixed on the carpet. His hands clenched, unclenched.
Jolie swallowed. “At the hospital,” she said carefully, “they don’t usually leave clothes on. They cut them off. They take... everything.”
No one argued.
That silence told Skye something without saying it.
Skye’s voice came out flat. “I thought so.”
Jolie’s eyes flicked to Mum, then back. “So when you woke up and still had them—that’s not just strange. That’s—”
“Impossible,” Dad said, too fast.
Mum’s mug hit the counter with a dull thud.
Skye flinched.
Mum’s hands went to her sleeves again. Then she spoke, and her voice sounded like it had been pulled up from somewhere scorched.
“I burned them.”
Skye froze.
Mum didn’t look at her. Her eyes stayed on the sink, the tap, the tiny crack in the tile she’d scrubbed a thousand times.
“I couldn’t have them in the house,” Mum said. “I kept seeing you.” Her voice broke on you. “In them.”
Alice went very still. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t comfort. Movement felt dangerous now.
“I put them in a bag,” Mum went on, breath uneven. “I took them outside. I burned them in the garden. At night.” A hollow laugh slipped out. “Like an idiot.”
Dad stared at the floor like he could see the fire there.
Skye’s brain reached automatically for a smaller angle. Something practical.
“So,” Skye said, carefully, “if you hadn’t burned them, I’d have a spare.”
No one laughed.
Mum’s face collapsed, like Skye had hit the wrong button. Alice’s eyes filled fast and furious. She turned away like tears were enemies.
Dad’s mouth opened. Shut.
Only Jolie’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile. Recognition. The shape of a child trying to make the impossible sit politely.
“That’s... a very Skye way to cope,” Jolie said gently.
Skye’s cheeks warmed. She couldn’t tell if that was good or bad.
Jolie took a breath. Grounded herself.
“Okay,” she said. “Next thing.”
Alice’s knee started bouncing again—fast, relentless. Jolie’s hand moved without ceremony and rested lightly on it, not stopping it, just anchoring it.
Skye noticed how easily she did that.
Jolie looked back at Skye.
“Everyone asks this,” she said, voice dropping, careful not to bruise the question. “Even if they pretend they don’t.”
Skye waited.
“What was it like?” Jolie asked. “When you were... gone.”
The pressure bloomed behind Skye’s ribs again. She pressed her fingers together instead, nails biting skin. A different anchor.
“I don’t know how to answer,” Skye said.
“That’s okay,” Jolie said immediately. “Just tell the truth.”
Skye looked at Mum. Mum’s eyes were wet but fixed, bracing for a picture she couldn’t stop seeing.
Dad looked like he was holding his breath on purpose.
Alice’s face was already breaking, like she’d been waiting five years for a sentence.
Skye swallowed.
“It wasn’t dark,” she said. “And it wasn’t light.”
Alice leaned forward. “Like a void?”
Skye shook her head. “A void is still something.”
Her hands twisted. She forced them still.
“It was like being paused,” Skye said. “Not sleeping. Not dreaming. Just... stopped.”
The room reacted all at once.
Mum let out a sound that was half breath, half sob. Alice wiped her eyes hard. Dad went utterly still.
Jolie stared, holding the sentence carefully.
“So you weren’t aware?” Jolie whispered.
Skye shook her head. “I didn’t know time was passing. I didn’t know—” The word stuck. “I didn’t know I was dead.”
The word landed heavy and wrong.
Mum turned away, hand over her mouth. Alice made a sound that might have been a laugh trying not to become a scream.
Dad said, low and raw, “But you’re here.”
Skye blinked at him.
“If there was nothing,” Dad went on, voice tight, “and then you’re here—then something pressed play.”
Skye’s stomach went cold.
Her brain twisted the sentence before she could stop it.
“You mean you don’t want me here.”
Dad’s head snapped up. “No. God—no.”
He looked wrecked. “I want you here so much I can’t trust it. I can’t trust anything that takes you and gives you back without telling us why.”
That made sense.
It didn’t make it safer.
Jolie stepped into the space before the room split. “Skye, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
Skye nodded because nodding was easier than crying.
Alice’s voice came hoarse. “Did you see anyone?”
Skye shook her head. “No.”
“I’m sorry,” Skye said automatically.
“No,” Jolie said, firm. “Don’t apologise for what’s true.”
A beat.
Skye’s mind reached for edges. For routine. For something that proved she still belonged in a shape.
“I want to go to school,” she said.
Silence—different now. Not awe. Guilt.
Skye frowned at their faces. “It’s Thursday,” she said. “I have maths. And lunch.” Her voice wobbled. “I want my friends.”
Mum broke, turning away, scrubbing the counter hard like she could erase the sentence.
Alice whispered, “Skye...”
“What?” Skye asked.
Alice’s eyes were bright and ruined. “Your friends are older now.”
The words hit like ice water.
Jolie leaned forward. “Skye—”
“No,” Skye said too fast. “I can still go. I can just—go back.”
Dad said quietly, “Listen—”
“Why can’t I?” Skye demanded.
No one answered.
Their faces did.
Safe from people.
From being taken.
From losing you again.
Jolie held Skye’s gaze. “Not forever,” she said carefully. “Just not yet.”
“Safe from what,” Skye asked.
Dad said, “From people.”
Mum whispered, “From being taken.”
Alice broke. “From losing you again.”
Jolie looked around the semicircle they’d built like a fence. “We need to slow down,” she said. “Not because Skye is a puzzle. Because she’s a child. And she’s scared.”
Skye hated the word and needed it at the same time.
“Do you feel different?” Jolie asked softly. “Anywhere?”
Skye checked herself. Carefully. “No. I feel like yesterday.”
Dad went to the window then, abrupt. He peeled the curtain back a fraction and stared out at the street.
A neighbour’s car idled too long. Someone walked past twice with a dog that wasn’t theirs.
Dad didn’t relax.
Skye watched him and understood, clean and sharp:
Jolie saw me and the world didn’t end.
But Dad is still waiting for it to.
She pressed her fingers together until pain made her present.
Whatever brought her back hadn’t brought instructions.
And the people who loved her were already trying to write them—
in a semicircle—
with a chair in the middle—
hoping the right questions might keep her from being erased again.
———
No one moved the chair back.
Not straight away.
It sat in the middle of the living room like a mark someone had made and forgotten to erase. Skye stayed in it longer than she needed to, hands folded tight in her lap, eyes moving from face to face, waiting for someone to say what came next—because adults always knew what came next.
But nobody did.
The room didn’t snap back to normal. It loosened instead, a fraction at a time. Enough that Skye noticed she could swallow without it scraping.
Jolie’s shoulders dropped, just a little, like she’d finally remembered they were allowed to. She rubbed her palms together once, slow and grounding, then looked at Mum.
“Do you want a minute?” Jolie asked.
Mum nodded too fast. Her mouth opened like she meant to say something polite—thank you, probably—and nothing came out. She turned back toward the kitchen and picked up her mug again even though it had gone cold. The mug seemed to be doing a job—giving her hands something to hold that wasn’t fear.
Dad let the curtain fall back into place. He stayed by the window for a beat, staring out at the street like it might explain itself if he looked hard enough. His shoulders didn’t soften. He looked like a man waiting for instructions that weren’t coming.
Alice didn’t move from the sofa. She stayed angled toward Skye, close enough that Skye could feel her there without turning around. A presence. A guardrail.
Skye waited for the pressure to come back.
It didn’t—not fully. But something eased enough that her head felt quieter.
She stood.
No one stopped her. No one told her to sit back down.
That—more than anything—felt like permission.
Skye walked to the television. Not because she wanted television, exactly, but because it was something she could do without asking why. The remote sat on the coffee table where it always lived, like the house was still pretending to be itself.
She picked it up and sat on the rug, back to the sofa, close enough to feel people without having to look at them. Close enough to hear if someone broke.
The screen flickered on. The news was already there—someone too bright, too calm, saying words that didn’t belong in her living room.
Skye didn’t listen. Her eyes went straight to the corner.
The date.
The year.
It stared back at her. Unblinking.
For a moment, something sharp rose—heat behind her eyes, a tightness that said turn it off, don’t look, don’t want things you missed.
Her thumb hovered over the power button.
Then her brain did the thing it did when something was impossible but also fixed: it put the feeling down gently and labelled it not helpful right now.
Five years. Still five years. Okay.
She clicked the channel over.
A cartoon shouted. Too loud. Click.
A cooking show. Someone slicing onions dramatically, talking about caramelising like time was something you could control with heat. Click.
She wasn’t searching for anything special. She just wanted something that didn’t look at her like she might vanish.
Behind her, the sofa creaked.
A small sound. Ordinary. But Skye felt it anyway, like a ripple through water.
“You okay?” Alice asked.
Skye kept her eyes on the screen. “I’m watching telly.”
A breath from Alice that almost turned into a laugh. “Right. Sorry.”
Skye clicked again—and stopped.
Disney+.
The icon sat there like it belonged. Like it had always been there. Like nothing catastrophic had happened in between.
She frowned and selected it.
The menu loaded—bright colours, clean lines. The clean made her chest tighten again. Everything looked too certain. Too updated.
She scrolled once. Twice.
Then she saw it.
Avengers: Doomsday
Avengers: Secret Wars
Her mouth opened without asking her first.
“No way,” she whispered.
Alice leaned forward over her shoulder. “What?”
Skye pointed at the screen like pointing could make it solid. “It’s out.”
Alice’s face shifted—surprise first, then something softer and wounded underneath it. “Skye...”
The rest landed without anyone saying it.
Of course it’s out.
You weren’t here.
Heat crawled up Skye’s neck—embarrassment, sharp and strange, like she’d broken a rule she hadn’t known existed.
For a second she almost turned the TV off. Almost decided she didn’t deserve things she’d missed.
Then—before the feeling could grow teeth—she smiled.
Small. Careful. Real.
“I don’t have to wait,” she said.
Alice went very still behind her.
Skye didn’t look back. She didn’t want to see what Alice’s face might do.
She clicked on Doomsday.
The opening logos burst onto the screen—loud, dramatic. Skye turned the volume down two notches because loud dramatic could still be too loud. She needed the room to stay gentle.
Something in the house shifted.
Not healed. Not fixed.
Occupied.
From the kitchen came the tap running. A cupboard opening, closing. The sounds weren’t frantic now. They were ordinary sounds doing ordinary jobs.
Jolie stood and quietly set her bag on the dining chair Dad had dragged in, like she was giving the room back without announcing it. She moved to the kitchen doorway and murmured something low to Mum. Mum nodded, wiped at her face once, and turned back to the kettle like boiling water was something she could control.
Dad hovered near the armchair, still undecided.
He looked at Skye’s back for a moment—long enough to check she was still there without watching her too closely—then sat.
Not slumped. Not relaxed.
Seated. Which was its own kind of surrender.
Skye watched the film start. She didn’t care yet what it was about. She cared that it existed. That the world had kept making things—big, stupid, heroic things—while she’d been paused.
Behind her, Alice slid off the sofa and sat on the floor instead. Close enough that Skye could feel warmth at her back.
Skye didn’t move away.
Alice didn’t touch her right away either. Like she was waiting to be sure.
A big moment hit the screen—music swelling, something enormous shifting into view—and Skye’s hands lifted without permission, fingers flexing like she wanted to grab the air.
“Oh my God,” she breathed.
“Language,” Alice said softly.
Skye glanced over her shoulder, offended on principle. “It’s not a swear. It’s... a phrase.”
Alice made a sound that was closer to a laugh now. “Sure.”
Skye turned back to the screen.
A second later, Alice jabbed her lightly in the side.
Skye yelped. “Alice!”
Another jab. “You’re smiling.”
Skye squirmed away, laughter bursting out before she could stop it. “Stop! Stop—!”
Alice did it again—gentle, stupid, relentless—the exact kind of sister torture Skye remembered from before Thursday.
Skye twisted on the rug, trying to protect her ribs. “You’re evil!”
Alice’s laugh came out properly then—raw and surprised, like she hadn’t expected her own body to remember how.
In the kitchen, Mum froze with her hand on the kettle.
She turned and watched.
For a second her face went very open. Soft in a way Skye hadn’t seen since she woke up. The smile that came to Mum’s mouth looked like it hurt, like it was stretching over something cracked.
She didn’t say anything.
She just watched Skye laugh like she’d forgotten how to breathe properly.
Skye shoved a cushion between herself and Alice and collapsed back onto the rug, flushed, hair messy, eyes bright.
“Don’t do that,” she muttered.
Alice’s hand hovered, unsure—then settled gently on Skye’s shoulder. One steady point of contact.
“I’m sorry,” Alice said quietly. “I just... missed it.”
Skye didn’t ask what it meant. She knew.
She leaned back slowly, testing.
Alice didn’t move away.
Skye let her head rest against Alice’s shoulder.
Alice’s arm came around her like it had been waiting all morning.
On the screen, the film rolled on—big and ridiculous and heroic—and Skye watched with her mouth slightly open, tracking every detail. When something cool happened she made small excited noises under her breath, like she was trying not to wake the house.
Dad’s eyes were on the TV now.
Not because he cared.
Because Skye did.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. The room’s questions didn’t vanish—but they quieted. Set down carefully.
Mum brought mugs into the living room on a tray. She set one down, then another. Her movements were careful, but not panicked. Like she was remembering how to be a mother in a morning that hadn’t finished breaking yet.
Jolie took a mug with both hands and stayed near the doorway, watching without intruding. Her gaze tracked Skye’s posture, the way her shoulders lifted with the music, the way she relaxed when Alice’s arm tightened. Not judging. Assessing needs.
Skye didn’t look away from the screen.
She didn’t want to lose this—this ordinary thing—because it felt like proof she could still be here without explanation.
A big moment hit. Skye sucked in a breath.
“Is it good?” Alice whispered.
Skye nodded fast. “It’s so good.”
Alice’s arm tightened for a second. Not a squeeze. A hold.
Behind them, the kettle clicked off.
A mug clinked.
Dad exhaled slowly.
Not relieved.
Thinking.
Skye didn’t see the look he exchanged with Mum across the room—but she felt the air change anyway. Just a little.
Like something was being decided quietly.
And whatever it was, it wasn’t about the film.
———
The last ten minutes of Avengers: Doomsday made Skye forget to blink.
The film didn’t ask permission. It took the room and filled it—light and noise and impossible stakes—cities folding like paper, a sky splitting open, faces turned up toward something too vast to name. It wasn’t real, but it landed in her body like real anyway. Like her ribs still didn’t understand the difference when the story was built well enough.
She’d migrated onto the sofa at some point without noticing. The blanket was pooled over her legs, heavy and warm, the kind of weight that made a person feel held. Her fingers were knotted into the fabric—not fear, exactly. Wanting. Wanting it to keep going. Wanting the moment to stay inside the shape it had finally found.
Beside her, Alice had one shoulder pressed into her, close in that careful way that tried not to be obvious. Alice’s hand rested on Skye’s forearm, not gripping, just there—like a marker. Like proof.
On screen, the one Alice had whispered about like it was a secret stepped into the light and did the thing that looked like dying.
The music swelled. The camera lingered. Everything slowed down the way films did when they wanted you to feel it.
Skye’s stomach dropped anyway, stupidly, even though she knew the rules.
In these stories, people didn’t stay gone.
Alice’s voice brushed Skye’s ear. “I swear to God, if they actually—”
“Shh,” Skye whispered, like the film could hear her.
Alice huffed a laugh through her nose and squeezed Skye’s sleeve, but she let Skye have the moment. Let her stare, wide and hungry, as if watching hard enough could make the ending behave.
The hero fell.
The screen went white.
Skye’s lungs tightened with a sudden, wrong sympathy—her body reacting like the fall mattered, like it could still lose something even in a safe story. She pressed her tongue to the back of her teeth and held still.
Then, right when it hurt most, the film did what films always did.
A cut.
A breath.
A hand in rubble.
A flicker of movement where there shouldn’t have been any.
Skye’s mouth fell open.
Alice sat back hard, stunned for half a beat—then barked a laugh that sounded like it got snagged on something sharp. “Oh, come on.”
Skye didn’t laugh. She stared as the impossible kept moving. Not alive exactly. Not dead. Something in-between.
Not finished.
The credits rolled.
The music softened into something that tried to sound like hope without promising it.
Skye watched the names scroll like she was watching a spell being written. She didn’t know who most of them were, but she liked that there were so many. A crowd behind the story. Hands and minds stacked together. No one doing it alone.
Alice nudged her knee with hers. “Alright. Verdict.”
Skye blinked, slow, as if waking. “It’s... good.”
Alice tilted her head, mock-offended. “That’s all you’ve got? After all that? I’ve just experienced cinematic trauma.”
Skye kept her eyes on the screen, still stuck on the hand in the rubble. “They come back.”
Alice’s face changed—small, quick. Not sad exactly. Just careful. “Yeah.”
Skye’s fingers tightened on the blanket. “Even when it doesn’t make sense.”
“Welcome to Marvel,” Alice said, and tried to make it light.
Skye hesitated, then said what was sitting in her chest like a thought with nowhere else to go. “So maybe... I’m like that.”
Alice’s eyes flicked to her. The carefulness sharpened. “You’re not like that.”
The words landed wrong before Skye could catch them. Her heart sank, stupid and fast.
Alice’s grin snapped into place, bright on purpose. “You’re cooler.”
Skye blinked. “I’m not.”
“You are,” Alice said, like she’d decided and that was the end of it. She lifted the remote and pointed it at Skye like a microphone. “You’re a superhero.”
Skye’s mouth twitched despite herself. “No.”
“Yep,” Alice said. “Superhero name. Come on.”
Skye tensed. Names had rules. If you picked the wrong one, people laughed forever.
Alice narrowed her eyes theatrically. “Skye... Skye... Night—”
Skye frowned. “Night?”
“Nightskye,” Alice announced, pleased with herself. “Spelled wrong on purpose. Branding.”
Skye made a noise that was half laugh, half protest. “That’s not—”
“It is,” Alice said. “And your special ability is—”
She jabbed Skye’s side.
Skye jerked and yelped. “Alice!”
Another jab, softer. “—making stories where bad things happen to bad people.”
Skye squirmed away, laughter slipping out before she could decide if she was allowed it. “That’s not a power!”
“It is if you’re good at it,” Alice said smugly.
Skye tried to glare, but her cheeks hurt from smiling. She shoved a cushion between them and collapsed back into the sofa, breath a little ragged, hair sticking to her forehead.
“Don’t do that,” she muttered.
Alice’s hand hovered—unsure—then settled on Skye’s shoulder. One steady point. One truth.
“Ok, I’m done now,promise” Alice said.
The streaming service tried to autoplay something else, bright and loud and eager.
Alice flicked it off before it could start.
The screen went dark.
For a few seconds, the room held.
Not fixed. Not safe. But shaped—soft edges, warm weight, the afterglow of a story that promised you could fall and still not be done.
In the background, Dad had drifted toward the kitchen. Not dramatic. Just moving the way adults moved when they thought children were occupied. Jolie followed, quiet as a shadow, taking her mug with her.
Skye didn’t watch them go. She didn’t want to. She wanted the sofa and the blanket and Alice calling her Nightskye like it was normal.
A cupboard shut in the kitchen.
Hard.
The sound snapped through the house like a twig breaking.
Skye’s smile disappeared before she could stop it.
Alice went still beside her.
Dad’s voice followed—low, tight, controlled in a way that made it worse.
Mum answered, sharper, and Skye’s skin prickled as if the tone had fingertips.
At first Skye didn’t catch the words. Just the shape of them. The rise. The scrape. The old familiar way adults tried to keep their anger polite and failed.
Her chest tightened.
Her hands went cold.
Alice’s fingers slid over Skye’s wrist, grounding. “Ignore them,” she murmured.
Skye stared at the dark TV, her faint reflection ghosted in the glass. She could see her own eyes too wide, her mouth too still. She looked like someone trying not to take up space.
The voices climbed.
Not shouting yet. But climbing.
Skye’s brain dragged up a memory without asking.
Not a scene. A feeling.
A night in bed with the duvet pulled up to her nose, counting cracks in the ceiling while Mum and Dad argued downstairs. Footsteps pacing. A door slamming. Words thrown like objects you couldn’t duck.
Skye’s throat tightened.
Her breathing sped up on its own, as if her body had been waiting five years to finish the reaction.
Alice turned toward her immediately. “Hey. Skye.” Her voice went low and fierce in the way it did when she meant business. “Look at me.”
Skye tried. The room felt too sharp at the edges.
From the kitchen, Mum’s voice cracked through: “No.”
Dad, clipped: “She needs—”
Skye sucked in too much air too fast. It stung. Her body panicked at the speed of itself.
Alice shifted closer, blocking Skye’s line of sight to the doorway. “Copy me,” she said. “In. Slow.”
Skye’s breath skidded.
Her fingers went to her chest automatically.
Alice caught her hands gently and made her grip Alice’s forearm instead—skin, fabric, warmth. Something real. “Here,” Alice said. “Hold me. Not your chest.”
Skye clamped on.
Alice’s instructions stayed simple, stupid, doable. “In through your nose. Like smelling toast. Out like blowing on hot tea.”
Skye hated hot tea. But she understood the shape of the instruction.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
The voices spiked again and Skye flinched hard enough that her shoulders ached.
Alice swore under her breath. “For fuck’s sake.”
Skye’s eyes watered. She couldn’t stop them. Everything was too much—new life, old house, wrong year—and now the sound of her parents tearing the air the way they used to.
Then Jolie’s voice cut through the kitchen doorway, clear and steady.
“Both of you. Stop.”
A pause—sharp enough that even Skye felt it.
Dad said something quieter. Mum answered, shaking.
Skye couldn’t hear every word, but the tremor in Mum’s voice was a siren. Her body reacted like it was already too late.
Alice’s hand pressed to the back of Skye’s neck, firm. “Stay with me,” she murmured. “You’re not back then. You’re here.”
Skye nodded too fast.
Her breathing slowed by tiny degrees. Enough that the room stopped tilting. Enough that words came through.
Dad: “—discreet. One person. No hospital.”
Mum: “If we pull at it—”
Dad: “We can’t just—”
Mum: “No.”
Skye’s stomach twisted.
Doctor. Hospital. People. Systems.
Alice’s jaw tightened, fury flashing. “They’re doing this now?”
Skye whispered, small and confused because her head snagged on the wrong part: “What’s a doctor?”
Alice blinked, and her face softened, guilt flickering. “It’s... someone who checks you’re okay,” she said quickly. “Like when you’re sick.”
Skye stared. “I don’t want strangers.”
“I know,” Alice said immediately. “You don’t have to—”
A chair scraped in the kitchen. Hard. Like someone stood up too fast.
Skye flinched again.
Alice anger snapped into place like a shield. She sat up, ready to launch.
Skye grabbed her sleeve. “Don’t go.”
Alice looked down, softened for half a second. “I have to,” she said. “Just to stop them shouting. That’s all.”
Skye’s fingers tightened. Panic made everything simple and terrible. “It’ll get worse.”
Alice crouched to Skye’s level, eyes bright with fear she was trying not to give away. “Skye. I’m not leaving you. I’m stopping the noise. That’s it.” She squeezed Skye’s hand once, then pointed at the blanket. “Sit. Breathe. I’ll be right back.”
Skye nodded.
But she didn’t stay.
She followed, quiet as she could make herself, feet barely making sound on the carpet. Her heart banged in her ears.
She reached the hall just as Alice hit the kitchen doorway.
Jolie was half between Mum and Dad, shoulders squared, palms open like she could physically hold them apart.
Mum stood by the counter with her hands braced on it, sleeves tugged down, eyes too bright. Dad was near the table, jaw clenched, arms folded like he was holding himself still by force.
Alice stormed in. “Do you hear yourselves?”
Mum snapped around. “Alice, not now.”
“When, then?” Alice shot back. “When she’s shaking on the sofa because you can’t keep your voices down?”
Dad snapped, “I’m not the one—”
“You both are,” Alice said. “You’re acting like she can’t hear through walls.”
Jolie said, “Alice—” but it wasn’t a warning. It was relief. Backup.
Skye stepped into the doorway.
Dad saw her first.
His face changed immediately, anger draining like someone pulled a plug. “Skye—”
Mum turned and made a small, broken sound, like her throat didn’t know how to be quiet.
Alice froze. Regret flashed across her face. “Skye, I told you—”
“I heard,” Skye said.
Her voice was small. It still landed.
“I heard you shouting.”
Mum took a step forward automatically, then stopped, as if she didn’t trust her own hands. “Sweetheart—”
Skye flinched at the word and hated herself for it.
Jolie moved first, gently, putting herself within Skye’s line of sight, voice steady. “Skye. You’re not in trouble.”
Skye blinked at her.
Dad swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said, and it sounded like it cost him. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice.”
Mum’s voice cracked. “I can’t— I can’t lose you again.”
Something in Skye twisted. That sentence made her responsible for the universe.
Dad’s voice went tight. “Linda, don’t put that on her.”
Mum snapped, “Don’t tell me how to—”
Dad’s restraint finally buckled. “You’ve not been coping.”
The kitchen went still. Not because the argument was over—because something in the air had shifted.
Mum’s face went pale with fury and shame. Jolie’s posture sharpened, but her voice stayed calm. “Simon.”
Dad’s eyes didn’t leave Mum. “She needs to know we haven’t been okay.”
Mum shook her head hard, breath ragged. “No. Not—”
Skye’s gaze snagged on Mum’s sleeves. The way she kept her arms close. The way she’d tugged the fabric down earlier, like hiding.
Her mouth went dry.
“Mum...?” Skye whispered.
Mum’s eyes flicked to Skye and broke. Not dramatic. Just... undone. “I just wanted the pain to stop,” she said, barely audible, as if saying it out loud might make it real.
Skye’s brain tried to turn that into something sensible and couldn’t.
She blurted the first true thing she had. “But you’re my mum.”
Mum’s eyes flooded. “I know.”
Hot anger rose in Skye’s chest—not at Mum, exactly, but at the fact the world could take Skye away and then keep taking. Like it wasn’t finished.
“You can’t do that,” Skye said, voice shaking. “You can’t leave.”
Mum covered her mouth, tears silent and fast.
Dad’s voice softened, wrecked. “I didn’t say it to hurt you,” he said to Mum, then to Skye—gentler—“I’m saying it because this is bigger than fear. We need help.”
Mum shook her head violently. “If we pull at it, it’ll notice. It’ll take her back.”
Skye flinched at take her back like she was an object that could be returned.
Dad’s voice went hard again, not angry—determined. “No one is taking her anywhere.”
Mum’s voice rose, raw. “All I see is her—” She stopped, choking. “I keep thinking if I move wrong, if I say the wrong thing, if I let anyone look too closely, it’ll... it’ll correct itself.”
Dad looked like he’d been punched because he knew the picture too. He didn’t argue the memory. He just said, quieter, “That’s not how life works.”
Mum laughed once, broken. “None of this is how life works.”
Jolie stepped forward, calm and firm. “Linda. Look at Skye.”
Mum did.
Skye stood in the doorway with her fingers curled so tight her nails hurt. She felt too exposed for this kind of truth. Too watched. Too small.
Jolie’s voice stayed steady. “Skye is hearing every word. Whatever you two believe about fate, right now the only thing you’re doing is scaring her.”
Mum’s breath stuttered. She stared at Skye like she’d forgotten Skye wasn’t a dream.
“I’m not... a thing that gets corrected,” Skye said, hating how thin her voice sounded. “I’m a person.”
Mum made a sound like a sob. “I know.”
Skye swallowed hard. Her throat burned. She pushed the words out anyway, because she needed them in the air where everyone could hear them.
“You can’t keep me here by breaking yourself,” Skye said. “That doesn’t make me safe. It just makes me... stuck.”
Alice’s hand settled on Skye’s shoulder, proud and shaking.
Dad’s face crumpled. “Skye...”
Jolie turned her attention back to Skye, simple and direct—like giving her a rail to hold. “Skye. Do you want a doctor to check you? Yes or no.”
Mum flinched like it was a gunshot.
Skye’s stomach turned. Doctor meant questions. Touch. Being looked at like a problem. Bright lights. A room that smelled like antiseptic. A stranger deciding something about her body as if it belonged to the world.
But Skye thought of Mum’s sleeves. Mum’s eyes. The way the house had been holding its breath since Skye woke up.
She thought of the film—the hand in the rubble, moving again. The way everyone on screen pretended to be brave while the music tried to make it feel safe.
“I don’t want strangers,” Skye whispered.
Dad said quickly, “She isn’t a stranger. One person. Discreet. No hospital.”
Mum snapped, sharp with panic, “Your girlfriend.”
Dad didn’t deny it. “Yes.”
Skye blinked. Girlfriend. Another new fact in the wrong place, sticking to the moment like a label on a bruise.
Jolie kept her voice even. “Skye, you can say no,” she said. “And if you say yes, you can set rules. No surprises. Alice with you. You can stop at any point.”
Rules.
Steps.
Skye looked at Alice.
Alice’s eyes were glossy, furious with fear, but her voice was steady. “If you want me there, I’m there. The whole time.”
Skye looked at Mum.
Mum looked like someone trying to hold back a wave with her hands.
“I can’t—” Mum started.
Skye cut in, voice shaking but firm, because the words were the only thing in her control. “Mum. I’m not going away because a doctor looks at me.”
Mum’s mouth trembled. “You don’t know that.”
Skye swallowed. “You don’t either.”
Silence.
Then Skye said the part that felt like stepping off a ledge. “I want to go.”
Mum folded in on herself. Dad exhaled like relief and terror were the same breath. Alice squeezed Skye’s shoulder hard enough to hurt—just for a second.
Jolie nodded once. Decision. “Okay.”
Mum whispered, small and broken, “Please don’t leave me.”
Skye’s eyes burned. “I’m not leaving you,” she said, and meant it like a promise she could hold. “I’m going to come back. But you have to... stay.”
Mum shook her head, crying.
Jolie stepped closer to Mum, gentle but firm. “Linda. I’m staying here with you.”
Mum blinked at her, dazed. “Why?”
Jolie didn’t make it dramatic. “Because you shouldn’t be doing this alone,” she said simply.“And because Skye shouldn’t have to carry that fear on her own.”
Alice’s head snapped up. “I’m going with them.”
Jolie nodded. “Good.”
Dad looked at Skye, voice softened again. “We’ll do it quietly,” he said. “No drama. We’ll go, we’ll come back.”
Skye nodded, even though fear still sloshed around in her stomach like cold water.
Alice tugged gently at Skye’s sleeve. “Come on, Nightskye.”
Skye’s mouth twitched despite everything. “That’s not my name.”
“It is today,” Alice said, and her smile wobbled but held.
Skye took one step toward the hall—then stopped and looked back at Mum.
Mum stood by the counter like she didn’t trust her legs.
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, then let go, shaking.
“Come back,” Mum whispered.
“I will,” Skye said, and it came out steadier than she felt.
Jolie’s hand settled on Mum’s elbow. Steadying. “We’ll be right here.”
Skye turned away before she could watch Mum break again.
Alice’s hand found hers. Dad went for his keys.
And as Skye walked into the hallway with her sister’s grip locked around hers, she felt the house exhale behind her—like it hadn’t realised until now that this was the first plan anyone had made that wasn’t only fear.
Outside was waiting.
The world was still the world.
But Skye was walking toward it anyway.
