The past won’t let go until you make it right…
The café was packed. Victor had booked a table in advance to celebrate his birthday—otherwise, they’d never have gotten in. They’d arrived when the sun was still up, but now darkness pressed against the windows. The air conditioning hummed at full blast, music thrummed in the background, and blue fairy lights flickered around the perimeter, giving the place a festive glow. All that was missing was a Christmas tree.
“Vic, come on, let’s dance,” murmured Vicky, his wife, resting her head on his shoulder. On the tiny dance floor by the bar, two couples were already swaying.
“Ask Jack. I’ll sit this one out,” Victor winked at his friend.
“I want to dance with *you*. Just once,” Vicky insisted.
“Honestly, go on, don’t mind me. I’d better head off, though. Mum’s blowing up my phone. Don’t want to test her patience. Vic, happy birthday again,” Jack said, shaking his friend’s hand before making for the exit.
“We’ll stay a bit longer, yeah? It’s nice and cool in here,” Vicky’s voice trailed after him.
The street outside was thick with muggy heat, despite the late hour. Jack hadn’t drunk much, but his head was foggy, legs unsteady—probably just the warmth. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He fumbled for it.
“Jack, where are you? It’s late,” came his mum’s anxious voice.
“Almost home, Mum. Don’t worry.”
“How can I *not* worry? It’s nearly eleven,” she chided.
“I’ll be there soon—” He hung up.
Picking up his pace, Jack breathed deeply, willing the alcohol out of his system.
Irritation prickled under his skin. Twenty-four years old, a grown man, yet his mum still fretted if he stayed out past nine like he was some wayward teen. How was he supposed to date anyone? *”Sorry, love, Mum says I’ve got to be home by curfew”*? He seethed silently but never snapped—because he understood. He knew *why* she worried.
Thirteen years ago, his sister Emily had died. The day after her funeral, his father dropped dead from a heart attack, unable to bear the loss. And Jack? He blamed himself for both. No logic, no reassurance ever shook that guilt loose.
“You were eleven. What could you have done against three grown men? By the time you got there, it was too late. You weren’t a coward—you ran for help,” Victor had told him.
True enough. But guilt clung like a shadow. It haunted every attempt at romance. He imagined girls could *see* it on him—his failure, his fear. Even Vicky. He’d met her first, taken her to the cinema, even kissed her in the dark when she’d grabbed his hand. Then he introduced her to Victor.
“Vicky and Victor—meant to be,” his friend had laughed.
And soon after, Vicky confessed she’d fallen for Victor instead. What could he do? Can’t force love. They married six months ago, and Jack stood as best man. He’d only regretted it a little. Vicky in white had been breathtaking.
“When are *you* bringing someone home?” his mum would ask.
“When I find someone like you, I’ll marry them on the spot,” he’d joke.
He meant it. His mum was striking even at fifty-two, still elegant despite the grief that had silvered her hair. Emily had been just like her—tall and graceful, with sharp cheekbones, olive skin, and storm-grey eyes. Jack had loved watching her brush her long hair, always tied back in a ponytail or clipped up loosely. When she let it down, it cascaded like spun gold. She’d have grown even more like their mum with time.
They’d been a close family: his dad adoring his wife, proud of his daughter, thrilled with his son. Emily had just finished school, aced her first A-level. She’d planned to train as a teacher—until a warm summer night stole her away. Forever seventeen.
The empty streets dredged up memories he’d rather forget. But guilt gnawed, relentless. Not a day passed without him thinking of her, without self-reproach.
Quiet, slender, utterly domestic, Emily had teased him, calling him *”shrimp”*. He’d bragged to mates about his pretty sister as if it were *his* achievement. Older boys buttered him up for intel on who she fancied. She ironed, hoovered, peeled potatoes as though it were sacred. Slow but efficient.
If he hadn’t frozen, hadn’t run… When his father died, an idea took root: if *he* died too, punishment would balance the scales. At eleven, it made perfect sense.
His mum, drowning in grief, somehow noticed. One night, she sat on his bed—the one he’d once shared with Emily—and begged him not to leave her. If he went, she’d have nothing left.
Sometimes he wondered if she’d ever really recovered. And so, for her, he’d postponed justice.
—
Tree branches arched over the pavement, swallowing the streetlight. The road became a patchwork of shadow and glow. Rare cars sped by, tires whispering like distant rain. He could’ve used a downpour.
His own birthday in three months? A quiet affair at home. No pubs. His mum would cook a spread… Emily’s friends had loved their house. *Emily*. Why was he thinking of her tonight? If only he hadn’t run—
—
That summer evening, Emily had stayed late at a friend’s revising.
“She’s not back yet? Left her phone? Jack, do you know where Lucy lives?” his mum had said. “No, we’ll go together—”
“Oh, stop fussing. She’s grown. It’s two streets over—Jack can go,” his dad had grunted, flipping the newspaper.
Jack had been thrilled. Never allowed out after dark, this was his first taste of freedom. For a moment, he’d felt grown-up. (Though what kind of grown-up was *eleven*?)
He’d sprinted to the flat, buzzed. Lucy’s mum said Emily had left ages ago.
Confused, he’d raced back—how had they missed each other? Then he heard it: a muffled cry, rustling, the wet thud of blows. His stomach lurched. Something bad. Something *wrong*. And with dreadful certainty, he knew it was Emily.
He crept closer. The alley was unlit, the building windowless. Opposite, a few lights glowed. The sky was violet, not black.
Pushing through bushes, he froze. Three lads hunched over something. Didn’t see him. He couldn’t see *her*—but he knew. One turned, spat, and advanced.
“Piss off, kid. Not your business—”
Jack stumbled back, branches snagging his shirt, thorns scraping skin. He ran. Later, he lied to himself: *Maybe it wasn’t her.*
At home, his dad yanked the door open.
“There—hurry—” Jack gasped, bolting downstairs, his father’s heavy footsteps behind him.
“Emily? Where? What’s happened?”
Jack couldn’t speak. Couldn’t say what he *knew*.
They reached the torn bushes as sirens wailed. Someone had called the police. The lads were gone. Something pale on the ground. Jack collapsed onto the pavement.
His father pushed through—and howled. Not a shout. A wounded animal’s cry. Jack blacked out. The paramedics revived him. “Nervous shock,” they said. His mum became a ghost. His father buried Emily in a closed casket—her face destroyed by a brick. From the graveside, an ambulance took his dad. Dead by morning.
The killers were caught fast. Police traced them through Emily’s contacts. They’d wanted revenge, feared she’d talk.
For months, Jack heard Emily brushing her hair at night. Sometimes, in moonlight, he swore he saw her.
His mum aged overnight. Ignored him. He was sure she blamed him too. *Coward. Ran. Got his dad killed.*
So he decided to fix it. No Jack, no guilt. Simple.
Then one night, his mum held him.
“Jack, it wasn’t your fault. Don’t torture yourself. You’re all I have left. Don’t leave me…”
And so he stayed.
—
Now, a scuffle. Muffled shouts. That summer night flashed before him, Emily’s fading face sharpening. *”I’ll make it right,”* he breathed, and charged.
In an alley, two men had a girl pinned. Her pale legs kicked beneath a pale dress—
He roared, yanking one back—then a fist cracked his ribs. He doubled over. A blow to the head dropped him. Boots thudded into his side. Gravel bit his cheek. He didnAs the ambulance sped away, Jack clutched Sophie’s hand—finally at peace—knowing he’d done what he couldn’t all those years ago.
