The past won’t let go until you make it right…
The café is packed. Victor had booked a table in advance for his birthday celebration—otherwise, they wouldn’t have gotten in. They arrived while the sun was still up, but now darkness clung to the windows outside. The air conditioning hummed at full blast, music thrummed in the background, and blue fairy lights twinkled along the edges of the windows, giving the place a festive glow. All that was missing was a Christmas tree.
“Vic, come on, let’s dance,” murmured his wife, Vicky, resting her head on his shoulder. A small space near the bar was already occupied by two swaying couples.
“Ask Ivan—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’m heading out anyway. Mum’s bombarding me with texts. Don’t want to push her patience. Vic, happy birthday again,” Ivan stood, shook his friend’s hand, and made for the exit.
“We’ll stay a little longer, yeah? It’s so nice in here,” Ivan caught Vicky’s voice behind him as he left.
The street hit him with a thick, muggy heat after the café’s chilled air. He hadn’t drunk much, but his head was foggy, legs unsteady—probably the heat. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he fumbled to pull it out.
“Ivan, where are you? When will you be back?” His mother’s anxious voice crackled through.
“Mum, I’m on my way, don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry? It’s nearly eleven!” The reproach in her tone was sharp.
“I’ll be there soon—” He hung up.
Picking up his pace, Ivan inhaled deeply, trying to clear the alcohol from his system.
Irritation twisted inside him. Twenty-four years old, a grown man, yet his mother still treated him like a reckless teenager. How was he supposed to date anyone? *Sorry, love, Mum says I’ve got to be home early?* He fumed silently, though part of him understood her fear. He never argued outright—he couldn’t. No, he wasn’t a mama’s boy. He just knew *why* she worried.
Thirteen years ago, his sister Alice had died. The next day, his father collapsed from a heart attack, unable to bear the loss of his daughter. And Ivan? He blamed himself for both deaths. No amount of reasoning could shake the guilt.
“You were *eleven*. What could you have done against three grown men? By the time you got there, it was too late anyway. You didn’t freeze—you ran for help,” Victor had told him more than once.
Logically, it made sense. But the guilt gnawed at him anyway, poisoning every attempt at a relationship. He was convinced women could sense his cowardice. Even Vicky. He’d met her first—they’d gone to the cinema a few times, even kissed once in the dark when she’d taken his hand. Then he introduced her to Victor.
“Victoria and Victor—it’s fate,” his friend had joked.
Soon after, Vicky admitted she’d fallen for Victor instead. What could he do? You can’t force love. They’d married six months ago, with Ivan as best man. He’d only felt the smallest pang of regret—Vicky had looked breathtaking in white.
“When are *you* bringing a girl home?” his mother would ask.
“When I find one as good as you,” he’d tease.
He wasn’t lying. His mother was elegant, beautiful even at fifty-two, even after losing half her family in one cruel week. Alice had looked just like her—slender as a birch, with sharp features, warm skin, and grey eyes. Ivan used to love watching her brush her long hair. At home, she’d tie it up or clip it back, but before going out, she’d shake it loose—a shining cascade down her back. She’d have grown even more like their mother with time.
Their family had been close. Their father adored his wife, took pride in Alice, doted on his son. Alice had just finished school, taken her first exams. She’d wanted to study teaching, but her life had been stolen on another warm summer night. Forever seventeen.
The empty streets dredged up memories he wished he could forget. But guilt was relentless, gnawing at him every day. Not a single sunrise passed without him thinking of Alice, cursing his own weakness.
Quiet, slim, home-loving Alice used to tease him, calling him “shrimp.” Ivan had bragged to his friends about his beautiful sister as if it were his own achievement. Older boys buttered him up, hoping to learn which of them Alice fancied. She ironed clothes, vacuumed, peeled potatoes as if it were sacred work—slow and deliberate, yet always finished before you knew it.
If only he hadn’t run. When his father died suddenly, Ivan had thought—*I can fix this*. If he died too, it would be justice. The guilt would be gone, and everything would reset. At eleven, that seemed like the right answer.
His mother, drowning in grief, had noticed. One night, she sat on his bed—the one he’d once shared with Alice—and begged him not to leave her. Without him, she’d have nothing left to live for.
Sometimes, Ivan wondered if she’d ever truly recovered. But he couldn’t abandon her. So he’d postponed his own reckoning.
***
The streetlights barely pierced the thick canopy of trees, leaving the pavement a patchwork of light and shadow. The occasional car sped past, tires hissing like rain. A downpour would’ve been welcome.
In three months, he’d celebrate his birthday at home. No cafés. His mother would cook all his favorites. Alice’s friends had loved coming over—Alice. Why was he thinking of her again? *If only I hadn’t run—*
***
It had been a summer night like this. Alice had stayed late at a friend’s, studying for exams.
“Where is she? She left her phone. Ivan, do you know where Emma lives? Go get her,” his mother had said. Then, “No, I’ll come with you,” and she’d turned to change.
“Where are *you* going? She’s a grown girl, don’t embarrass her. It’s not far—let the boy go,” his father had grumbled, turning a page of his newspaper.
Ivan had leapt at the chance. He’d never been allowed out so late before. For once, he felt grown-up. Except—what kind of grown-up was he? Just an eleven-year-old kid.
He’d sprinted to the flat, buzzed the intercom. Emma’s mother said Alice had left ages ago. Confused, Ivan had run back, wondering how they’d missed each other. Then he’d heard it—muffled shouts, scuffling in the bushes, the sickening thud of blows. His heart had hammered, and somehow, he’d known: *Alice*.
He inched toward the voices. The streetlamps were dead here. The building’s blank wall offered no windows, no witnesses. A few distant lights glowed from the flats opposite. The summer sky was violet, not black.
Pushing through the bushes, he froze. Three older boys were crowded over something—over *someone*. He couldn’t see Alice, but he knew. One of them—squatting, back turned—suddenly looked up, sensing eyes on him. He stood, spat, and stalked toward Ivan.
“Piss off, kid. You’re too young for this—” Hot eyes burned into him.
Ivan stumbled back, tripped over roots, the branches clawing at his skin, his shirt. He thrased free and ran. Later, he’d tell himself he hadn’t seen Alice, hadn’t been sure it was her.
His father had yanked the door open before he could knock.
“There—hurry—” Ivan gasped, then bolted back down the steps, his father’s heavy footfalls behind him.
“Alice? Where? What’s happened?” his father demanded, but Ivan couldn’t speak, couldn’t say aloud what he’d barely glimpsed.
They reached the crushed bushes just as police sirens wailed in the distance. Someone *had* seen—called for help. The boys were gone. Something pale lay on the ground. Ivan couldn’t move, just crumpled onto the pavement.
His father pushed through the foliage—and let out a sound no human should make. Ivan blacked out. The paramedic who revived him called it shock.
His mother became a ghost, barely eating or sleeping. His father had died the day after Alice’s funeral. The boys were caught quickly—they’d wanted revenge for some slight, afraid Alice would expose them.
For months, Ivan swore he heard Alice brushing her hair at night, saw her silhouette in the moonlight.
His mother aged overnight, grey and hollow. She barely noticed him—maybe blamed him too. CowardOne evening, as Ivan rocked his daughter Alice to sleep, her tiny fingers curled around his, and for the first time in years, the weight of the past finally felt lighter.
