**Diary Entry**
The past won’t let go until you make it right…
The café was packed. Victor had booked the table in advance—otherwise, they wouldn’t have made it in. They arrived while the sun was still up, but by now, darkness pressed against the windows. The air conditioning hummed, and music played softly. Blue Christmas lights blinked around the perimeter, giving the place a festive glow. All that was missing was a tree.
“Come on, Victor, let’s dance,” whispered his wife, Victoria, resting her head on his shoulder. A few couples swayed near the bar.
“Ask John instead. I’ll stay here,” Victor said with a wink at his friend.
“But I want to dance with *you*. Just once?” Victoria persisted.
“Honestly, you two go on. Don’t mind me. I should head off though—Mum’s been blowing up my phone. Best not push her patience. Happy birthday again, Vic.” John stood, shook his friend’s hand, and made for the exit.
Behind him, Victoria’s voice floated: “We’ll stay a little longer, yeah? It’s so nice and cool in here.”
The street outside was thick with stifling heat despite the late hour. He’d barely drunk anything, yet his head felt foggy, his legs unsteady. Probably the humidity. His phone buzzed in his pocket.
“John, where are you? It’s late—I’m worried,” Mum’s strained voice crackled through.
“Nearly home. Don’t fuss.”
“How can I not? It’s gone eleven,” she scolded.
“I’ll be there soon—” He ended the call.
He walked faster, breathing deep to clear his head.
Irritation prickled under his skin. He was twenty-four—grown—yet Mum still treated him like a schoolboy. How was he supposed to date? *Sorry, love, Mum says curfew’s at ten?* Part of him resented it, but another part understood. She had her reasons.
Thirteen years ago, his sister Emily had died. The very next day, Dad suffered a heart attack—gone before the funeral. And John knew, deep down, he’d failed them both. No amount of logic shook the guilt.
“You were *eleven*. What could you have done against three grown men? It was too late anyway—you ran for help. That’s not cowardice,” Victor had argued.
It made sense. But sense didn’t erase the weight. It tangled his relationships—made him sure every girl sensed his shame. Even Victoria. He’d met her first, taken her to the cinema, kissed her in the dark while she laced her fingers through his. Then he introduced her to Victor.
“Victoria and Victor—meant to be,” his friend had laughed.
Soon after, she chose him. Couldn’t force love, could he? Last year, they married. John stood as best man, watching her in white. Only a twinge of regret.
“So when do *I* get to meet a girl?” Mum would ask.
“Find one like you, and I’ll marry her on the spot.” He wasn’t lying. Mum was striking—slim, elegant, despite the grief that had silvered her hair. Emily had been her mirror: small, fair, with the same grey eyes. John used to watch her brush her hair, long and shining. At home, she’d tie it up; stepping out, she’d shake it loose, a golden spill down her back. She’d been seventeen. Would’ve been thirty now.
Their family had been close. Dad adored Mum, was proud of his children. Emily had just finished her A-levels. Wanted to be a teacher. Then a summer evening stole her forever.
The empty streets dragged memories to the surface. He hated them. Hated himself.
Emily—quiet, sharp, always teasing him—used to call him *runt*. He’d boast about her to his mates like it was *his* achievement. Sixth-formers buttered him up, asking who she fancied. She ironed, vacuumed, peeled potatoes like it was sacred. Never rushed, always perfect.
If he hadn’t run that night… When Dad collapsed, John had thought: *I’ll fix it. If I die, the guilt dies. Everything undoes.* At eleven, it made sense.
Mum, half-broken herself, had sensed it. One night, she’d sat on his bed—Emily’s old bed—and begged: *Don’t leave me. If you go, I’ve nothing left.*
He’d postponed death for her.
The trees arched overhead, swallowing the lamplight. Puddles of dark and gold. Rare cars whispered past. The hiss of tyres on wet tarmac sounded like rain.
His birthday was months away, but he’d spend it at home. No cafés. Mum would cook. Emily’s friends used to love their house. Emily. Why was he thinking of her now?
***
That summer night: Emily had been revising at a friend’s.
“Where is she? Left her phone, too. John, you know where this Lucy lives? Go fetch her,” Mum said. “No—wait, we’ll go together.”
“Oh, don’t fuss. She’s grown. It’s just round the corner—John can go,” Dad muttered from behind his paper.
John had thrilled at the rare freedom. Eleven years old, playing grown-up.
He’d sprinted to Lucy’s. Her mum said Emily had left ages ago.
He’d run back, confused. Then—a muffled scream. Scuffling in the bushes. Thuds. His heart hammered. *Emily.*
Creeping closer, he’d seen them—three lads hunched over something. The one crouching turned, eyed him, spat: “Piss off, kid.”
John stumbled back, snagged on branches, tore his shirt scrambling free. He told himself he hadn’t *seen* her. That it wasn’t her.
At home, he gasped: “Quick—there—” Dad bolted after him.
Near the bushes, a police siren wailed. The lads were gone. Something pale on the ground. Dad howled—a wounded animal. John fainted.
Mum became a ghost. No tears. No words. Dad buried, then gone himself.
The lads were caught quickly. A grudge, they’d said. Fear she’d talk.
For months, John swore he heard Emily brushing her hair at night. Saw her silhouette in moonlight.
Mum barely looked at him. He was sure she blamed him. *Coward. Ran. Let them kill her. Killed Dad, too.*
Death would fix it. A few days, he’d clung to that.
Then Mum—fractured as she was—had pulled him back. *You’re all I have left.*
He stayed for her.
***
Now, a scuffle. Muffled cries.
Memory flashed—Emily’s fading face.
*I’ll fix it.* He charged. Two lads had a girl pinned. Pale legs. A pale dress.
He wrenched one back, took a punch to the ribs, folded. A kick to the head. Pain bloomed. Stones bit his cheek. Didn’t matter. *Did she run? Did I fix it?*
Darkness. Voices.
“He’ll live?”
A siren drowned the reply.
Someone calling. Light crept in.
*Mum.*
“John?”
He opened his eyes.
She wept by his bedside. “The girl’s outside—she called the police. They’ve got them.”
“I wanted to fix it.”
“You’re alive. That’s enough.”
The girl—Sophie—visited daily. A teacher, fresh from uni. “Psychology says you’re stuck in the past,” she said. “You tried to save *her*, not me. But you *did* save me.”
By discharge, he loved her.
They married. Lived with Mum. Emily’s ghost faded.
Mum sometimes called Sophie *Emily*. It stopped when they named their daughter after her.
The past won’t let go until you fix it. John didn’t bring Emily back—but he mended what he could.
Almost.
