‘Elle?’ I say. ‘Elle,’ I repeat, but she doesn’t answer. I’ve just spent the last five minutes telling her about Mum’s latest hospital news, and all she did was respond with a grunt every few sentences. She hasn’t looked up from her phone once, probably because she’s busy texting Matty.

‘Sorry, Saff,’ she says, finally turning her phone face down. ‘That’s really good!’ She grins, pulling me into a hug. At first I’m stiff, but then I soften and hug her back.

We’re at mine having our half-term sleepover like we said we would. Elle was the one who brought it up again, which made me happy. I think she still feels kind of bad about the perfume thing, so she’s trying to make it up to me. But it feels different to usual. Even though Matty’s not physically here it’s like he’s taken over the entire evening. Either Elle’s texting him, or I’m thinking about ways to bring up the mean things he said. I want to show Elle what sort of person he really is, but whenever I try to speak it’s like my lips are glued shut.

With Mum at the hospital, and my friendship group falling apart, it feels like my world is crumbling like the ruined fairy palace – like the only thing in my life that makes sense is the house with the memories and the game.

But the doctors said that Mum’s doing as well as she can. They use words like ‘stable’ and ‘progress’. I need to focus on my mission: watch the memories and collect the objects. I can’t let myself get distracted again. Not by the door, or anything else. Because I’m certain that, once I get through all the memories, the door will open. And when the door opens . . .

‘You can pick the film tonight!’ Elle says, crashing into my thoughts like ocean waves against a rock. ‘Matt’s gone to the cinema to watch a double screening of Star Wars. He’s so lame – he actually turns his phone off for it. Shall we get into our PJs?’

Finally. Finally we can start our sleepover properly. Even though it’s only because Elle’s boyfriend won’t be in virtual contact for five hours.

‘Yeah!’ I say excitedly, jumping up and down. ‘Shall we have cheese and Marmite toasties?’ I ask a little tentatively, worried she won’t remember that it was always our favourite snack.

Elle’s eyes light up like she’s eleven again. ‘I forgot about those! Please can we?’

Ten minutes later we’re in our PJs and in the kitchen armed with butter and bread, ready to make our toasties.