The past won’t let go until you fix it…
The café was packed. Victor had booked a table in advance for his birthday—otherwise, they’d never have gotten in. They arrived when the sun was still up, but now darkness pressed against the windows. The air conditioning hummed at full blast, music thrummed through the room. Blueish fairy lights twinkled around the edges, giving the place a festive glow. All that was missing was a Christmas tree.
“Vic, come dance with me,” his wife, Victoria, murmured, 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 said, winking at his friend.
“I want to dance with *you*. Just once,” Victoria insisted, not backing down.
“Go on, you two. Don’t mind me. I’ll head off anyway. Mum’s been blowing up my phone. Don’t want to test her patience. Vic, happy birthday again,” Ivan said, shaking his friend’s hand before making his way out.
“Let’s stay a bit longer, yeah? It’s so cool in here,” Victoria’s voice trailed after him.
Stepping outside, the muggy summer night hit him like a wall. He hadn’t drunk much, yet his head was foggy, his legs unsteady—probably the heat. His phone buzzed in his pocket.
“John, where are you? Will you be long?” His mother’s voice was tight with worry.
“Nearly home, Mum. Don’t fret.”
“Don’t fret? It’s almost eleven!” The reproach in her tone was sharp.
“Be there soon—” He ended the call.
John quickened his pace, taking deep breaths to clear the alcohol from his system.
Irritation prickled under his skin. Twenty-four years old, a grown man, and she still treated him like a boy who’d stayed out past curfew. How was he supposed to date? *Sorry, love, Mum’s orders—home by ten?* He fumed silently but never argued aloud. He wasn’t a mummy’s boy. He just *understood* why she worried.
Thirteen years ago, his sister Lucy had died. The day after her funeral, his father dropped dead from a heart attack, unable to bear the loss. And John? He’d been responsible for both. At least, that’s how he saw it. No words, no reassurances could shake the guilt.
“You were *eleven*. What could you have done against three grown men? And it was too late anyway—you ran for help. That’s not cowardice,” Victor had told him.
Logically, yes. But logic didn’t erase the shame. It poisoned every attempt at romance. He imagined every girl secretly knew, judged him—even Victoria. He’d met her first, taken her to the cinema, even kissed her in the dark when she’d reached for his hand. Then he introduced her to Victor.
“Victoria and Victor—meant to be,” Victor had joked.
Soon after, she admitted she’d fallen for Victor instead. What could he do? You couldn’t force love. They’d married six months ago, and John had been best man. He’d only envied them a little. Victoria had looked radiant in white.
“When are *you* bringing a girl home?” his mother would ask.
“When I find one as lovely as you,” he’d tease.
He meant it. At fifty-two, she was still striking—slim, elegant, even after the grief had silvered her hair. Lucy had looked just like her. The same delicate features, the same grey eyes. John used to love watching Lucy brush her long, honey-blonde hair. At home, she’d tie it back or clip it up, but when she went out, she’d shake it free, letting it cascade down her back. She’d have grown even more like their mother with time.
Their family had been happy. His father adored his wife, doted on his daughter, cherished his son. Lucy had just finished school, taken her first exams. She’d wanted to be a teacher. But her life had ended on a warm summer night like this one. Forever seventeen.
The empty streets tugged at memories he’d rather forget. The guilt gnawed, relentless. Not a day passed without him thinking of Lucy, without self-loathing curdling in his gut.
Quiet, slight, always busy—Lucy had teased him, called him *shrimp*. He’d bragged to his mates about his pretty older sister as if her beauty were his doing. Older boys sucked up to him, fishing for hints about who she fancied. She ironed, vacuumed, peeled potatoes like each task mattered. Never rushed, yet everything done perfectly.
If he hadn’t run that night… When his father died, an idea had taken root: if *he* died, it would balance the scales. The guilt would wash away, and things would go back to normal. At eleven, it made sense.
His mother, drowning in grief, still noticed. One night, she came to his room—the one he’d shared with Lucy—sat on his bed, and begged him not to leave her. If he went too, she’d have no reason left.
Sometimes he wondered if she’d ever truly recovered. And so, for her sake, he’d postponed his atonement.
***
Tree branches arched over the pavement like a cathedral vault, blocking the streetlights. The road became a patchwork of shadow and dim glow. Distant car tires whispered like rain—he wished it *would* rain.
His own birthday in three months—he’d celebrate at home. No cafés. His mother would cook a feast. Lucy’s friends and his used to love coming over. *Lucy.* Why was he thinking of her again tonight? If only he hadn’t run…
***
That night had been just as warm. Lucy was studying at her friend’s, prepping for exams.
“Where is she? Left her phone, too. John, do you know where Emily lives? Go fetch her,” his mother said. “No, we’ll go together.” She went to change.
“Where d’you think you’re going? She’s a big girl, no need to embarrass her. It’s not far—let the lad go,” his father grunted, turning the newspaper page.
John was thrilled. He’d never been allowed out so late. For once, he felt grown-up. Though at eleven, what kind of grown-up was he?
He sprinted to Emily’s, buzzed the flat. Her mother said Lucy had left ages ago.
Confused, he ran back—how’d they miss each other? Then he heard it: a stifled scream, rustling in the bushes, the dull thud of blows. He froze. Something horrible was happening. His pulse roared. And somehow, he *knew*—it was Lucy.
He crept toward the muffled curses. No streetlights here. Blank brick walls. Opposite, a few windows glowed. The sky was purple-blue, not black.
He pushed through the bushes—and stopped. Three lads were hunched over something. Didn’t hear him. He couldn’t see Lucy, but he *knew*. One turned, sensing his stare, stood, and advanced.
“Piss off, kid. Not your business—” The lad spat, eyes burning into him.
John stumbled back, caught his foot—branches scraped his arms, snagged his shirt as he fought free.
He ran. Later, he told himself he hadn’t *seen* Lucy. Maybe it wasn’t her.
His father answered the door.
“There—hurry—” John gasped before bolting back downstairs. Heavy footsteps followed.
“Lucy? Where? What’s happened?” his father panted, but John couldn’t speak. Couldn’t say what he *knew* but hadn’t truly seen.
They reached the trampled bushes just as sirens wailed in the distance. Someone had called the police. The lads were gone. Something pale on the ground. John sank to the pavement.
His father shoved through the branches—and howled. Not a scream. An animal’s death-cry. John blacked out. The paramedic revived him. *Nervous shock*, they said. His mother became a ghost, neither eating nor sleeping. They feared she’d lose her mind. Lucy’s face had been smashed with a brick—they buried her in a closed casket. His father collapsed at the graveside. Dead by morning.
The boys were caught fast. The police traced Lucy’s contacts. They’d killed her to shut her up—afraid she’d expose them.
For months, John heard Lucy brushing her hair at night. Sometimes, in the moonlight, he swore he saw her—a faint outline.
His mother aged overnight, grey and hollow. She barely looked at him. He was sure she blamed him too. *Coward. Ran away. Let his sister die. Killed his father.*
So he decided to make it right. Simple: if *he* died, the guilt would end. Things would go back to how they were. For days, the thought soothed him. Then his mother, halfAnd when little Lucy laughed for the first time, the sound was so much like her aunt’s that John finally let go, knowing some part of her would always live on.
