"Why did she have to leave us so soon?"

That was the question Amy found herself asking for the last 4 years. A question that appeared on the shocking day when their mum was in a hit and run, a time that will be burned in both of the girls' memories for the rest of their lives.

Amy was sitting on her bed clutching the only thing she had from her childhood, a photograph, its edges soft from years of anxious fingers. A little girl sat on a sofa beside a smiling boy—someone she barely remembered, someone who felt important even though his name refused to surface.

Why did she keep it?

Was it the safety it held—laughter bouncing off walls, the smell of dinner drifting through the house, their mum calling them from the blanket forts she let them build? Or was it the boy? Did he mean something more? Someone she was meant to remember? Someone tied to her future?

The boy felt familiar. That frightened her more than forgetting.

Across the room, Chloe was movement and noise, a blur of limbs and breathless energy as she crammed clothes into a battered pink suitcase. Its lone wheel protested with a sharp squeal. Chloe didn't stop. She never did. Silence scared her, so she drowned it with motion.

"Do you think we'll get our own room?" Chloe asked, voice too bright, eyes giving her away.

Amy didn't answer right away. She stared out the window instead.

The garden still whispered of their mum—the white roses climbing the fence, lilies tangled with daisies in the flowerbed, the chipped birdbath she'd promised to fix. Spring frozen mid-promise. The faint scent of flowers carried memories of the shop their mum used to take them to, hands warm, smile tired but real, and the faint memory of their mums dream of running her own flower shop.

"I don't know," Amy finally said. Her voice cracked. "Maybe," holding the panic under her voice.

Chloe snapped the suitcase shut and climbed onto the bed, bouncing once like she used to when things felt wrong. "It'll be okay," she said, trying to believe it. "The lady said they're nice. Maybe we'll get adopted—together."

Amy nodded, gripping the photograph harder. "We have to. Mum would want that."

The silence thickened.

Downstairs, floorboards creaked beneath Mrs. Dawes' footsteps. The social worker's presence filled the house without warming it. The walls stayed quiet. Empty.

Amy's breath caught.

It started slow, then all at once. The air grew heavy, crushing her chest like someone was sitting on it. The room shrank. The walls leaned in. Her hands shook. Her legs followed. The posters blurred, twisting into shapes she didn't recognise. The room wasn't hers anymore. It wasn't safe.

Dark crept in from the edges of her vision. A high-pitched ringing screamed in her ears. Then—lavender.

Her mum's perfume.

Chloe noticed immediately. She always did.

"Hey," she murmured, crossing the room and taking Amy's hand. "Breathe, Ames. In and out. With me."

Amy tried. In. Out. Again. Her heart slammed against her ribs, then slowly—slowly—began to calm. Panic attacks had become frequent since the funeral. Sirens. Shattered glass. Sudden quiet, and the doctors saying the words nobody including no child would want to hear and that being that their only family member was gone. Grief didn't ask permission.

When Amy finally steadied, Chloe smiled, small and fierce. "See? You're okay. We've got each other."

Amy and Chloe had only really had each other, going from one family's house to the next. But never being there long enough to call it home, as every single time Amy and Chloe found themselves having to leave due to Amy's panic attacks. And their dad was really never in the picture, leaving when both girls were not even old enough to remember his face.

All their close family either was not with them or had turned their back on them. Their dad left, Their mum was gone.

Amy nodded, a tear slipping free. "Always."

"Girls?" Mrs. Dawes called. "It's time."

Time.

As if time hadn't already taken everything.

Amy stood on shaking legs, scanning the room. The band poster they used to dance to with Mum. The one-eared rabbit she'd been given at birth, along with the story of how it lost its ear. The lavender candle that smelled like safety. Like home.

Their sanctuary.

Now just a house. Empty. Echoing.

She tucked the photograph into her backpack, zipped it closed, and whispered goodbye. The garden outside no longer felt like theirs. Just another place holding memories that hurt too much to touch.

Chloe's goodbye was louder. Braver. A performance. But as they walked down the hallway, Amy turned back. The bedroom door shrank into the distance, fading like a dream she wouldn't be allowed to keep.

Mrs. Dawes waited by the front door, her smile kind but tired. Her eyes had seen too many of these moments.

"Ready, girls?"

Amy's stomach twisted. Nerves? Or the half-eaten dinner from last night?

Never, she thought.

But Chloe answered anyway. "Yeah." Too quick. Too hopeful.

Rain slapped against the car as the door opened. Wet leaves. Metal. The smell of goodbye. Amy hesitated before climbing in, turning back to the hallway one last time.

Photographs lined the wall. Their mum holding them as toddlers. And beside it—an empty frame. For the sister they never knew. The one who lived only in their mother's eyes and the one they never got to meet.

Amy brushed the frame. "Goodbye."

"She's with Mum now," Chloe whispered, voice shaking. "They're watching."

Amy nodded, biting back tears.

The drive felt endless. Rain hammered the roof. The seats smelled faintly of damp and old grief, like countless other children had cried here before them. Amy's mind raced ahead—what if they were separated? Different homes. Different lives.

Chloe, on the other hand, leaned forward, excitement buzzing beneath her fear.

Will they like me?

"So, Amy," Mrs. Dawes said, glancing into the mirror. "What's your favourite subject in school?"

Amy swallowed. "English."

Mrs. Dawes smiled—but it didn't reach her eyes. Amy looked away just in time to catch the social worker's phone lighting up on the dashboard. A name she didn't recognise.

"I've finished the mission. I've got the girls."

Barely a whisper. Loud enough.

A chill crawled down Amy's spine. Her hands shook. Mission? What mission involved them?

She didn't speak. Couldn't.

Instead, she pulled the photograph from her bag. Studied the boy's face again. And that's when she saw it—a faint scar on his cheek just below his left eye.

She still couldn't remember him.

The car slowed at the end of a long driveway. The building ahead looked ripped from an old black-and-white film—moss-covered bricks, vines clawing up the walls, dark windows that didn't welcome. Five oak trees stood around it like guards.

Hope flickered. Then died.

A sign was nailed to one of the trees.

I am not done with you yet, Amy.

Her breath caught.

The handwriting was familiar.

Kelsey.

Her primary school bully. The girl who had vanished from her life without warning. The girl who knew exactly how to hurt her.

Dread washed over Amy. Kelsey wasn't just someone from her past. She was someone who wanted to ruin her.

"You'll meet Jamie's mum and Hugo's dad," Mrs. Dawes said. "They foster together. I think you'll like them."

Something felt wrong. Too rehearsed. Too neat.

"Jamie?" Chloe whispered, hope lighting her face.

"They're both twelve," Mrs. Dawes said. "Just like you."

"At least we won't be alone," Chloe said.

Amy worried they'd judge her—her panic, her hair, her silence. She remembered Kelsey laughing when she stuttered in class or laughing at her blonde hair with pink tips. The memory twisted her stomach.

The door opened. Lemon-scented air drifted out.

"Amy and Chloe?" A woman with kind eyes smiled. "I'm Mrs. Carter. And this is Mr. Rivera."

Chloe smiled back immediately. Amy forced one.

In the garden, two boys kicked a football beneath tall sunflowers. One waved. The other watched quietly.

"You're the new girls," the taller one said. "Wanna play?"

Chloe didn't hesitate. Amy lingered—until the quieter boy spoke.

"You can be on my team."

Something loosened in her chest.

She nodded.

Laughter followed. Sunlight broke through clouds. For a moment, it felt almost normal.

"You're really good," the boy said later.

Amy blinked. "At football?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"I'm Jamie."

Amy looked up—and froze.

A faint scar sat just below his left eye.

The same scar, could it be the same boy from the photo.

"I'm Amy," she said softly.

The wind stirred the roses. Her mum's voice seemed to echo in it—gentle. Proud.

Maybe goodbyes weren't forever.

But as hope sparked, Amy didn't yet know that some reunions came with consequences—and that while she had grown older, so had Kelsey.

And Kelsey's games had only just begun.

Evening folded itself over the horizon as Amy and Chloe were led down the narrow hallway of their new foster home. The air was thick with cinnamon and laundry soap, trying too hard to feel comforting. Family photos lined the walls—smiling faces, frozen moments of happiness—each one quietly reminding Amy that she didn't belong in any of them.

It felt like walking through a museum of someone else's life.

Her eyes caught one photo in particular: a baby Jamie sitting in a cot, wrapped in a blue blanket, grinning at the camera. Proof that this place had history long before she and Chloe arrived.

Mrs. Carter's voice was warm but careful, like she was afraid of saying the wrong thing. "This is your room for now. You can decorate it however you like. If you need anything, just ask."

The bedroom was small but bright, overlooking the garden where they'd played earlier. Two twin beds faced each other, each covered with a patchwork quilt. Between them sat a vase of daisies. Thoughtful. Intentional. A welcome that felt rehearsed.

"Thank you," Amy whispered.

Mrs. Carter squeezed her shoulder gently. "Dinner's at six. We eat together."

When the door closed behind her, Chloe flopped onto her bed, blonde hair spilling across the pillow like she'd given up holding herself together for the night. She pulled her phone from her bag, scrolling fast, searching for something—anything—to anchor herself.

"Hey," Chloe said suddenly. "I just found that new arcade. The one that opened a few weeks ago, the one that mum said she would take us to."

Amy perched on the edge of her bed and managed a faint smile. "Yeah. That's nice."

But as she unpacked, her fingers brushed against the photograph tucked safely away. The ache came instantly—sharp and familiar. Loss didn't knock anymore. It just walked straight in.

Chloe noticed, of course. She always did.

"You're still carrying that?" she asked quietly.

Amy nodded. "I just... I don't want to forget."

Chloe's expression softened. "You won't. Mum's still here. Just... different."

Amy didn't answer. She slid the photograph into the top drawer of the bedside table and closed it carefully, like sealing something sacred away before turning to face Chloe. Before looking straight back to the draw that contained the picture.

"I just wish my mind could remember back then."

Dinner felt strange. Too normal.

The polished table, mismatched plates, the scrape of chairs—it all felt oddly human, like a family pretending this wasn't their first night together. Jamie sat across from Amy, hunched over his mashed potatoes, stealing glances he thought she didn't notice.

"Jamie," Mrs. Carter said casually, "have you told the girls about wanting to help kids who've been through difficult things?"

Amy looked up, surprised, and smiled before dropping her gaze again. Jamie froze. Then, cheeks burning, he slid down in his chair, mortified.

"Mum, why would you mention that?"

It was strange—but comforting—that Mrs. Carter spoke to them like they'd always belonged here.

After dinner, Mrs. Carter agreed to a film. Hugo, loud and confident where Jamie was quiet, bombarded Chloe with questions about school and football. Chloe answered eagerly, her voice filling the space.

Amy picked at her food, the clink of cutlery grating on her nerves. Panic hovered just beneath her skin. She counted her breaths.

Mrs. Carter noticed. "You don't have to finish, love. Adjusting takes time."

"Thank you," Amy murmured.

Jamie caught her eye then. Concern flickered across his face, something familiar in his gaze that made her heart stumble.

Was it really him after all these years?

The film started—a comedy Chloe chose. For a moment, Amy laughed without thinking. The sound surprised her.

Then the knock came.

Mrs. Carter frowned. "Jamie, Kelsey's here."

The name hit Amy like ice water.

Jamie groaned. "Now?"

"She needs a sweatshirt," Mrs. Carter said. "Keep it quick."

Amy's stomach twisted. She stared at the black screen of the TV as Kelsey's voice cut through the room—sharp, confident, edged with mockery.

"Didn't think I'd have to come all this way for a sweatshirt."

Amy looked up despite herself.

Kelsey stood by the door, red hair perfect, school skirt pushed just far enough to break rules. Her eyes landed on Amy and lit up.

"Well," Kelsey smirked, "if it isn't little Amy Thompson."

Jamie shot her a warning look. "Kelsey. Don't."

"What?" she said sweetly. "I'm just saying hi."

Amy's throat tightened. "Hi," she managed.

Kelsey's gaze flicked to Amy's pink-tipped hair. "Still doing the candy look? Cute."

The word cute sliced deeper than an insult ever could. Amy's chest tightened. Her breath shortened.

Mrs. Carter appeared instantly. "Kelsey, you've got what you came for."

"Wouldn't want to intrude," Kelsey said, her eyes never leaving Amy. She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "Careful, new girl. Not everyone stays as long as they think, and you won't be any different. Especially when I'm around."

The door shut.

Silence crashed down.

Jamie stared at the floor, fists clenched. Hugo muttered that Kelsey was "the worst." Chloe looked confused, unsettled.

Amy couldn't move. Her hands shook. Her heart raced. Tears wouldn't come—but another memory did.

Mrs. Dawes. Her confession. How she'd been adopted into a home that abused her and her siblings. How her brother (age 7) and sister (age 6) hadn't survived it.

The thought stole Amy's breath.

Even the strongest people had histories that nearly broke them.

Mrs. Carter rested a hand on Amy's shoulder. "She's not someone you need to worry about. Jamie and Kelsey dated briefly. It didn't work out."

Amy nodded, but she didn't believe it. People like Kelsey always came back. Her mum had warned her about that.

Her mum's words echoed in her mind, "they always come back.)

Later, in bed, Amy stared at the ceiling. Chloe's breathing was uneven beside her. Moonlight painted silver lines across the quilts.

A soft knock.

"Hey," Jamie whispered. "Are you awake?"

Amy sat up in bed, "yeah."

He stood in the doorway, hoodie rumpled. "I'm sorry about earlier. Kelsey's... angry. I dumped her after three months. Ever since, she makes it her mission to ruin anyone who gets close to me."

Amy swallowed. "She was always like that."

"You knew her before, didn't you?"

Amy nodded. "She and her friends used to—" She stopped.

Jamie didn't push. "You're stronger than she thinks."

Amy scoffed quietly. "You don't even know me."

He smiled. "I will."

When he left, her heart raced—not from panic this time, but something unfamiliar. Something warmer.

Chloe shifted suddenly, letting out a quiet sob.

Amy was out of bed instantly. "Hey. Talk to me."

Chloe's eyes were red, swollen. "I'm tired of pretending, Amy. Our life was ripped away today. What if this doesn't work either?"

Amy pulled her into a tight hug. "As long as we have each other, we'll be okay."

Chloe clung to her like she might disappear.

Amy didn't know yet that this house held secrets. That Mrs. Carter and Mrs. Dawes were tied to more than paperwork. That the past wasn't finished with them.

But as the wind brushed the window, Amy whispered into the dark—

"This isn't home. Not yet."

And hoped she was wrong.

Morning sunlight spilled through the thin curtains like threads of gold, warming the small bedroom. Dust hung in the air, drifting lazily, turning the quiet into something almost sacred. For the first time in days, the house wasn't echoing. It wasn't loud with grief or footsteps or memories that didn't belong to her.

It was just still.

Amy woke first. Her blonde hair, tipped with faded pink, fell into her eyes as she reached for the drawer that held the photograph. Two children smiled back at her—herself and a gap-toothed boy, no older than six, his arm slung around her shoulders like it had always belonged there.

"Still here," she whispered.

She traced his face with her thumb, slow and careful, as if touching the past might pull something loose. The house answered only with birdsong and the soft creak of settling wood. Amy wondered, not for the first time, if the boy in the photo was still alive—or if he had disappeared the same way everything else had.

Downstairs, the smell of toast mixed with strong coffee. Plates clinked. The sound tightened something in her chest. With the memory that her mum used to hum in the mornings, off-key but happy, the radio always playing too loud. This kitchen had no music. Just unfamiliar voices trying to sound normal.

Chloe stirred, blinking sleepily. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep," Amy said, slipping the photograph into the pocket of her hoodie, the one that was the only thing that seemed to bring comfort in this world of chaos that they were now having to understand.

"Today might be good," Chloe said, sitting up. "Mrs. Carter said we can go to the park. Maybe meet more kids."

Amy nodded, though her throat felt tight. Chloe always sounded hopeful, even when everything underneath was shaking. Amy admired that about her. I envied it.

They went downstairs together. The kitchen glowed with soft morning light. Mrs. Carter flipped pancakes, humming under her breath. Mr. Rivera stood half-awake by the counter, gripping his coffee like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Jamie and Hugo sat at the table—Jamie quiet and focused, Hugo already bouncing with energy.

"Morning, girls," Mrs. Carter said brightly. "Did you sleep okay?"

Chloe smiled easily. Amy murmured, "Yeah," and sat beside Jamie.

He slid a plate toward her. "Toast?"

Their fingers brushed.

Amy froze.

It was nothing—just skin against skin—but warmth shot through her, sharp and unexpected. She pulled her hand back quickly, cheeks burning, suddenly fascinated by the bottle of syrup.

Hugo grinned. "We're going to the park. You coming, Amy?"

"Maybe," she said softly.

Chloe rolled her eyes. "She is. She just doesn't know it yet."

Jamie smiled, shy and small. "It's not far. I can show you the shortcut."

Something in his voice—gentle, steady—made it easier to breathe. Amy nodded before she could overthink it.

Outside, the air smelled of damp leaves and earth. Chloe and Hugo ran ahead, their laughter loud and careless. Amy and Jamie walked behind them, slower.

He talked about school. About a treehouse he tried to build that collapsed almost instantly. Amy laughed—really laughed—and the sound surprised her. Jamie noticed but didn't comment.

"I like drawing," she said suddenly, the words spilling out before she could stop them. "I just... haven't done it in a while."

"You should start again," he said. "There's a pond at the park. It's kind of my secret place. You could draw there."

"Secret place?"

He nodded. "You can't tell anyone."

She smiled. "Promise."

They walked in comfortable silence, leaves crunching underfoot, the cold biting but clean.

Then a car roared past—too fast, too loud.

The sound slammed into her.

Metal. Screeching tyres. Shattering glass.

Amy stopped dead, her body reacting before her mind caught up. Her breath caught. Her chest tightened like it was being crushed from the inside. The world blurred. She grabbed the fence beside her as memories crashed in—her mum's scream, Chloe crying on the road, the doctor's voice telling them she wasn't coming back.

Jamie turned instantly. "Amy?"

She couldn't answer. Her lungs refused to work.

He didn't touch her. Trying to remember what his mum used to tell him if anyone close to him was having a panic attack. He just crouched nearby, his voice low and steady. "Hey. It's okay. Look at me. In... and out. Slow. Like this."

He exaggerated his breathing, giving her something to follow. "You're not there. You're here. The car's gone."

Gradually, the noise faded. Air rushed back into her chest. Tears spilled freely.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, shame creeping in.

"Don't be," he said quietly. "You didn't do anything wrong."

His words stayed with her.

At the pond, the world softened. The city noise faded until there was only birdsong and water. Sunlight shimmered across the surface, bending and breaking.

"This is it," Jamie said. "My secret corner."

"It's beautiful," Amy whispered.

He knelt by the edge, snapping a photo with his taped-up camera. "I like how water remembers," he said. "Even when the ripples disappear, the light still changes."

Amy crouched beside him. "My mum used to say something like that. Those memories change, but they don't disappear."

Jamie smiled at her. "She sounds smart."

"She was." The word hurt, sharp but survivable. She skipped a stone across the pond. "She taught me that."

They watched the ripples fade.

"It's quiet here," Jamie said. "Like the world forgets to be loud."

Amy nodded. "Quiet's nice."

They walked home slowly, talking about colours, rainy days, and favourite animals. Amy laughed again. When she mentioned foxes, Jamie promised to show her a photo.

Back at the house, Chloe and Hugo burst through the door, red-cheeked and breathless. "Seven goals!" Chloe announced.

Mrs. Carter clapped. "Looks like I'll have to sign you up for a team."

Amy smiled, warmth blooming in her chest.

Then Jamie's phone lit up.

Kelsey: We need to talk.

Amy didn't mean to read it—but the name caught her. Jamie saw it too. His jaw tightened. He deleted the message without a word.

That night, the house settled into a soft rhythm. Laughter drifted from the living room. Dishes clinked. Chloe hummed quietly. Amy sat by the window with her sketchbook, staring at the blank page.

Finally, she began to draw.

The pond. The willows. The light bending on the water. Two small figures near the edge. She made sure the ripples were visible.

She slid the drawing under her pillow.

A knock came.

Jamie stood in the doorway. "Just wanted to say goodnight."

"Goodnight," she said.

He hesitated. "Thanks for coming to the park."

"Thanks for helping me breathe," she blurted.

He flushed. "Anytime."

When he left, Amy lay back down. Chloe slept beside her, hair fanned across the pillow. The wind whispered outside.

The house didn't feel strange anymore.

Amy touched the drawing. Then the photograph.

"Maybe this could be home," she whispered.

And for the first time since the accident, the thought didn't hurt.