Amber didn’t make a habit of going back to the town where she grew up. She had left the past where it belonged, but once a year she allowed herself to visit the cemetery where her parents lay on the anniversary of their deaths, two towns over from Friars. Being back brought a mess of emotions, and her body shook with confusion. One minute she was smiling with pride at what she had done, and the next, she clenched her fists as the hate swept through her.

Amber parked the car and opened the cemetery gates, which squeaked on their hinges and snapped vines that had begun to wrap around the iron details.

The sky was overcast and frost still decorated the graves. She walked up the gravel path, breathing in the cold air and expelling them in clouds.

The graveyard was so quiet that she stopped for a moment to revel in it. She closed her eyes and breathed in the fresh air, listening to the sway of the trees and the beat of her heart. For a brief moment, it felt good to be home.

She walked on and gazed at the graves of her parents as she approached, easily distinguishable from the others by the overgrown weeds. When the complaints came in, Amber ordered the keeper never to cut them back. Some people laid flowers – others left their loved ones to rot.

She meandered from the path and walked past the graves until she stood before the two people that had brought her into this world, only for her to bury them six feet deep.

The weeds grew past her knees and had weaved into a thick tangle of thorns. Years of neglect had finally buried them out of sight. She crouched before the graves, slipped a small pair of shears from her bag, and snipped off the heads of snowdrops that had bloomed too soon, until the graves were colourless again. They didn’t deserve beauty.

‘It’s been a while,’ she said.

She imagined them as a jumble of bones in their caskets, and wondered what part of their bodies the worms ate first. Had they had to wait for the coffins to rot, only to find bones within? Or had they managed to wriggle inside and pick their skulls clean?

‘I’d say I’m sorry for not visiting more often, but we all know that would be a lie.’

She dug her nails into the grassy earth of her mother’s grave and ground it in her fist. The frost numbed her palm.

‘I’m sure you wouldn’t like me here too often, anyway.’

She spat on the mud and grass clumped in her hand as though it was a part of her mother, and let it fall back to the grave.

‘I’ve come to gloat. You always hated that in people, didn’t you, Pa?’