For as long as I can remember, I have known one thing to be true: our family is evil.

Mum never hid it from me. She told me when I was little, her voice calm, unwavering; 'Some people aren't meant to be in our lives, sweetheart. They don't love the way we do. They don't care the way I do. They would hurt you if they could.'

So the first time I hear from Uncle Graham is through a letter.

A real letter. Stamped and postmarked. Thick paper, folded neatly, addressed in unfamiliar handwriting.

I don't even know how he got my address.

The letter is simple. A few lines, written in slanted ink.

Rosie,

I know you won't believe me. But I need you to understand that I love you and I miss you and Hollie so much. You're all I have as a memory of my brother.

Please come and let us talk. Call me.

At the bottom, a phone number.

I stare at it for a long time, my heart hammering.

This is a trick. A cruel lie from a man who doesn't love me, just like Mum always said.

But the moment I see Hollie's name, something inside me shifts.

A buried instinct, something raw and clawing.

I remember Mrs. Thornton's face, the certainty in her voice... 'You used to play together in the front garden.'

I remember the school records, the name printed in black and white.

I remember the strange tightness in my chest. The one I've been ignoring.

I don't call him. Not yet.

But I go to see him.

__



He lives in a small flat in the city, above a newsagent's, the kind of place that smells faintly of damp.

I barely recognise him.

He has Mum's eyes. Or maybe she has his.

"Rosie." He exhales my name like it's been stuck in his throat for years.

I stay by the door. "I don't have long."

He nods. "That's alright."

He makes me tea. Milk, no sugar. Exactly how I like it.

We sit across from each other. He asks me questions in an attempt to catch up.

I try to feed him as little information as possible.

And then he tells me a story.

It's a simple one. A childhood memory.

It's summer. I am six years old. We are at the seaside. I wear red sandals, my sister wears blue. We eat chips from a paper bag, and Hollie drops hers in the sand and cries. Mum tuts, stealing a few from my portion and handing them to her.

It's a lovely memory.

The only problem is -

It never happened.

I have never been to the seaside with Hollie.

Because I have never had a sister.

__

When I get home, Mum is waiting.

I don't know how she knows. But she knows.

She is sitting at the kitchen table, hands folded neatly. The way she used to sit when I was little when she was about to tell me something very, very important.

She looks at me, and she knows,

I should say something. I should ask. Demand. Confront.

But I don't.

Suddenly, I feel like I am six years old again, small and safe beneath her gaze.

She gestures to the seat across from her. "Come sit down, sweetheart."

I do. I always do.

She pours tea for both of us. Her movements are slow. Deliberate.

"You've been restless lately," she says. "Haven't you?"

I swallow. My hands tremble slightly as I wrap them around my cup.

She watches me carefully, her expression warm. "I know what's happening, Rosie."

My breath catches.

She reaches across the table, touching my hand.

"You're getting confused again."

__

Later that night, I can't sleep. My mind won't stop twisting.

I get up. I wander the house in the dark, my fingers trailing along the walls.

And then, by accident, I find something.

In the back of the wardrobe, beneath a pile of folded blankets, there is a box.

And inside the box, there are photographs.

Dozens of them.

Me and Hollie.

Laughing. Holding hands. Matching dresses. Family dinners. Sunday roasts. Ordinary afternoons.

Evidence. Proof.

I stare at them, my breath shuddering.

She was real.

And Mum - lied.

__

I don't go to her right away.

I sit in my room, the photos spread out around me, my mind reeling.

The house is quiet. The clock on my bedside table ticks softly, steady and certain, grounding me.

But the ground beneath me is already crumbling.

I don't know how long I sit there.

At some point, the door creaks open.

Mum steps inside.

She looks at the photos.

She looks at me.

And then - she smiles.

"Oh, sweetheart." She exhales, shaking her head with a small, affectionate laugh. "Not this again."

She doesn't get angry.

She doesn't panic.

She sits on the bed beside me, smoothing my hair.

She picks up one of the photographs, tilting her head as she studies it.

"You've always had such an overactive imagination," she murmurs. "You were like this as a child. Always drawing."

I stare at her. My throat is tight.

"These aren't drawings," I whisper.

She strokes my cheek. "Aren't they?"

I look down at the photos again, spread across my lap.

So many. Too many.

And yet -

I try to focus, try to see them properly, but something inside me wavers.

Some of them look - odd.

Blurred at the edges. Colours too bright. My expression too stiff, Hollie's hand floating too perfectly in mine.

Like they aren't photographs at all.

Like they're something else.

Something wrong.

I shake my head. "No - "

She takes my face in her hands, gently, firmly.

"Sweetheart."

Her voice is so soft.

"You know I love you. You know I would never lie to you."

"Yes."

"You're tired."

"Yes."

"You always do this when you're tired."

"Yes."

She kisses my forehead. "It's alright. Let's put them away now."

I let her take the photographs.

She closes the box.

She strokes my hair.

And I let her.

Because she's perfect and here, I'm safe.

The End.

Or is it just the beginning?