The past won’t let go until you make it right…
The café was packed. Victor had booked a table in advance for his birthday celebration—otherwise, they’d never have gotten in. They arrived while the sun was still up, but now darkness pressed against the windows. The air conditioning hummed, music played softly, and blue Christmas lights flickered along the perimeter, giving the room a festive glow. All it lacked was a tree.
“Vic, come dance with me,” his wife, Victoria, murmured, resting her head on his shoulder. Over by the bar, a small space had cleared for a few couples swaying to the music.
“Ask James instead—I’ll stay here,” Victor said with a wink at his friend.
“I want to dance with *you*. Just once,” she insisted.
“Go on, you two. Don’t mind me. I should head off—Mum’s already spammed my phone. Don’t want to test her patience. Vic, happy birthday again,” James said, shaking his friend’s hand before heading for the door.
“We’ll stay a bit longer, yeah? It’s so nice in here,” Victoria called after him.
Outside, the muggy summer night swallowed him despite the late hour. He hadn’t drunk much, yet his head felt foggy, his legs unsteady. Probably the heat. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he fumbled to answer.
“James, where are you? It’s nearly eleven—I’m worried,” his mother’s voice trembled.
“Mum, I’m on my way. Don’t fret.”
“How can I not? It’s late.”
“I’ll be home soon,” he muttered, ending the call.
He quickened his pace, breathing deeply to clear his head. Irritation prickled under his skin. At twenty-four, he was a grown man, yet his mother still treated him like a child. Try bringing a girl home with *that* hanging over him. *”Sorry, love, Mum wants me back by curfew.”* He stewed silently, but deep down, he understood. He wasn’t a mummy’s boy—he just knew why she worried.
Thirteen years ago, his sister Emily had died. The next day, his father collapsed from a heart attack, unable to bear the loss. And James—he blamed himself for both.
“You were only eleven. What could you have done against three blokes? It was too late by the time you got help—you ran for aid, that’s not cowardice,” Victor had told him.
Logically, yes. But guilt gnawed at him, poisoning his relationships. He imagined girls could *see* it, that shadow of shame. Even Victoria. He’d met her first, taken her to the cinema, even kissed her—she’d been the one to reach for his hand in the dark. Then he introduced her to Victor.
“Victoria and Victor—it’s fate,” his friend had joked.
Soon, Victoria confessed she’d fallen for Victor. What could he do? Six months ago, they married, and James stood as best man. He only felt a twinge of regret. She’d looked breathtaking in white.
“When will *you* bring a girl home?” his mother asked.
“When I find one like you,” he’d deflect.
He wasn’t lying. His mother was elegant, beautiful even at fifty-two, despite the grief that had silvered her hair. Emily had been her mirror—slender as a willow, with warm grey eyes and soft brown curls. James loved watching her brush her hair, the way it tumbled down her back when she shook it loose.
They’d been a close family. His father adored his mother, doted on Emily, proud of his son. She’d just finished her A-levels, dreamed of teaching. But life had stolen her at seventeen.
The empty streets dragged memories to the surface. The guilt never faded. Emily had teased him, called him *”shrimp.”* He’d bragged to his mates about his gorgeous sister as if *he* deserved credit. And that night—
A rustle, muffled shouts. His pulse spiked. *”I’ll fix it this time.”* He sprinted toward the noise. In an alley, two men had a girl pinned. He lunged, dragging one off her, then gasped as a kick slammed into his ribs. A fist cracked his skull, and the pavement rose to meet him. Boots hammered his ribs, his face grated against gravel. He didn’t care. *”Did Emily get away? Did I fix it?”*
Voices mumbled above him. Sirens wailed.
Someone called his name. Darkness thinned.
“Mum?” he croaked.
“You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Later, a girl with bruised arms visited. “I’m Sophie—the one you saved. I was late leaving a friend’s… I screamed, but no one came. Then you… I called the police.”
*Just like Emily.*
She kept coming. Fresh from uni, training to teach. One day, she said, “You’re stuck in the past, James. You didn’t fail her. You were a child. But tonight, you *did* save someone. Let yourself live.”
By the time he left hospital, he loved her.
They married, moved in with his mother. The nightmares stopped. His mother sometimes called Sophie “Emily,” but that faded when they named their daughter after her. Grief leaves scars, but it doesn’t have to be the end.
The past won’t release you until you face it. James never brought Emily back—but he learned to carry her memory without letting it break him.
