Andrew stood alone with the map. The unexpected glow had faded, leaving only a faint trace on the old paper.

  I’ll prove it… the words pounded in his temples.

  Veronica’s words, her mocking laugh, the adults’ glances fused into one choking lump. He no longer felt hurt, only emptiness ringing in his ears on a single note. They did not believe him. Then he would bring proof they could not ignore.

  Andrew did not hesitate. Almost silently he pulled on his warmest jeans, two jumpers and his old parka with the hood. Into his rucksack went a torch, his sketchbook and a plain pencil, in case he could capture something. After a pause he slipped the untouched packet of lime gummy bears into his pocket.

  One thing remained. On a sheet torn from the sketchbook he scrawled a few words:

  Gone to find the sign on the tree. I’m not making it up.

  He left it unsigned. They would know.

  Andrew placed the note on his pillow, where it would be seen, and paused at the door, listening. The house slept, or pretended to.

  Each creak of the stairs seemed louder than his breath. He froze after every step, waiting for light to snap on, for his father’s voice. But the manor stayed silent.

  The front door lock gave way with a heavy click. Andrew slipped onto the porch and breathed the icy air. Snow had stopped falling. Above the hills hung a low, inky sky without stars.

  He did not look back. He walked forward, toward the place that waited with proof.

  An hour slipped by.

  In Veronica’s room the phone screen had gone dark long ago, but sleep would not come. She tossed from side to side, trying to push away the image of Andrew’s hurt face in the half-lit sitting room. Her own words, “cloud-walker,” echoed with unpleasant persistence. She had not meant to wound him so deeply.

  He’ll be fine in the morning, she told herself. I’ll apologise, as always.

  The thought brought no relief.

  Her stomach growled. With an irritated sigh Veronica threw off the blanket. She needed distraction. She remembered her “anti-stress mix,” a secret night-time cocktail of cola and lime that helped when everything went wrong. Childish, but effective.

  She slipped from the room, taking her phone.

  The upstairs corridor lay heavy with night. Moonlight from the landing window caught only the banister and the edge of the carpet. Passing her parents’ door, she slowed and listened. Nothing.

  She almost walked past Andrew’s room, but stopped. The door stood ajar. He never left gaps. He hated draughts.

  Probably just forgot, she thought, but a thin needle of worry touched her skin.

  Veronica reached for the handle.

  “Hey, cloud-walker,” she whispered with her usual tease. “You’ll catch a cold. Close the door.”

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  No answer.

  She frowned. She stepped inside and turned on the phone torch. The beam picked out a rumpled, empty bed. On the floor lay a torn sheet covered in scribbles. And on the pillow another, neatly folded.

  Heat rushed to her temples, stealing her breath. Veronica approached slowly and reached for the note.

  Gone to find the sign on the tree. I’m not making it up.

  She read it aloud.

  Her fingers opened of their own accord. The phone clattered to the floor and went dark, leaving her alone in thickening shadow. The words burned before her eyes. The cold that struck her had nothing to do with the night outside. It was the icy stab of guilt.

  “Idiot…” she whispered.

  Veronica flew from the room, thoughts lagging behind as her feet carried her forward. The parents’ bedroom door burst open under her push. Mary sat up at once, heart pounding from sudden waking.

  “Darling, what is it?” Her voice was hoarse with sleep.

  Victor muttered something and pulled the blanket over his head.

  “He’s gone!” Veronica cried. “Andrew!”

  She held out the note.

  Mary took it and switched on the bedside lamp. As she read, colour drained from her face in the half-light. Hearing Andrew’s name, Victor threw back the blanket.

  “Where?” he asked, pulling on trousers.

  “I… don’t know…” Veronica’s voice broke.

  The noise woke Logan and Heather. Within a minute they stood in the corridor.

  “What’s happening?” Logan asked.

  Mary handed him the note.

  Heather’s fingers went cold. Logan’s face became a mask of pure dread. The same fear he had shown at the lake reflected in his eyes. He did not shout. He simply looked toward the dark window where the forest stood motionless.

  “I told you…” Logan barely moved his lips. “This won’t end well.”

  “Logan, not now,” Heather said firmly. “We need to find him.”

  “Dress warmly,” Victor commanded. “Torches in the cupboard.”

  The house, moments ago asleep, erupted into sharp activity. Cupboards creaked, doors opened and closed.

  Victor returned with four powerful torches. Logan was already lacing heavy boots.

  “I’m coming too,” Veronica said.

  “No,” Victor cut her off. He pressed one torch into Logan’s hand. “You stay here. Call the moment he appears.”

  Veronica opened her mouth to argue, but the weight of his silence was stronger than words. She nodded mutely.

  Four figures slipped into the night. The lock clicked. Footsteps on snow faded quickly.

  Veronica remained alone.

  She stood in the vast sitting room. The only sound was the ticking of an old clock pressing against her ears. She went to the window and pressed her forehead to the cold glass, staring into darkness where torch beams had vanished.

  Only he would think of going into the forest at night.

  Anger flared, then ebbed, leaving her hollow.

  She moved away from the window and sank into the armchair by the dead fire. The house felt foreign, enormous. Every creak upstairs made her flinch. She hugged herself, trying to still the shaking. Guilt and fear locked her breath in an icy grip.

  Then she felt a draught. Light, barely there, touched her cheek like a cool palm. All windows were shut tight.

  Somewhere nearby came a faint crack. Lamps deeper in the house flickered, changing the familiar light.

  Veronica froze, listening. Fear vanished. In its place came an inexplicable calm, neither joy nor relief. Her eyelids grew heavy. Anger, guilt, worry began to melt, leaving a strange emptiness inside.

  I should call them…

  The thought flared and died. Veronica tried to stand, but her body sank deeper into the chair.

  She woke to anxious voices. The sudden brightness made her squint. Logan stood over Andrew, who sat on the sofa wrapped in three blankets, stubbornly arguing something. Heather pressed a damp cloth to his forehead.

  “I wanted to find the sign!” Andrew’s voice was hoarse.

  “Do you have any idea you could have died?” Logan answered, fear outweighing anger.

  Veronica stirred in the chair. How long had she slept? The sitting-room window stood ajar, though she clearly remembered every vent and frame sealed tight.

  “Enough,” Mary said firmly, stepping between Logan and Andrew. “He’s home and warm. That’s what matters. Talk tomorrow. Everyone to bed.”

  Seeing Veronica awake, Andrew looked at her desperately, seeking support. She only shook her head in confusion, still separating reality from the strange, soothing dream.

  When everyone dispersed, silence returned to the room. A light breeze playfully lifted the curtain. The window sash swayed gently and closed with a quiet, final click of its own.

  In the air lingered the faint trace of an unseen step.