‘The cinema? Dinner at the Foundry Arms? Have you forgotten?’

‘Of course not.’ He looks at me and winks, closes down his laptop, and heads over to where Dad hands him his coat.

‘You forgot, didn’t you?’ Dad says.

‘Yep!’ They both laugh, as they head for the door.

‘I didn’t want to come anyway,’ I call after them, playfully.

‘You hate Marvel,’ Dad calls back.

‘I like Chris Hemsworth,’ I say, as they close the door behind them. ‘And Tom Hiddleston’s not bad either.’ The words feel too frivolous on my tongue. And I don’t hate Marvel. In fact, Dad mentioned earlier that they were going, but I haven’t got room in my head for films, or TV or anything much at all right now – every thought consumed by everything that happened at Drummondale House. But I get why they need to go. Why they need to act as if life is normal – because that’s all it is. An act.

It’s almost six o’clock, when I make my way into the kitchen, and pour myself a glass of gin, adding ice and tonic. I grab a half-empty tub of Pringles from the cupboard, and head back into the lounge. The only light is from the fire, but I like it this way – flopped on the sofa, taking short sips of my drink, munching on the crispy snacks.

After a while, I rise and head for the front window, where I take in the wide road, and the grass verge opposite that leads to the river. Berwick-upon-Tweed hasn’t had anywhere near as much snow as Scotland, but still people are huddled in warm coats and knitted hats as they scurry home, trying to stay upright on slippery pavements.

I squeeze my eyes together, and move closer to the window, peering through the glass. I loved living here when I was young. I was happy then.

Someone is standing across the road in the shadows. They seem to be looking straight at the house. My heart leaps into my throat. The young woman looks so much like Lark, and my eyes fill with tears. I know it can’t be her, but I so wish it was.

I place my hand on the window, as though touching her.

I’ve seen my sister often since she disappeared. On the street, her voice in a shop, even when I’m alone I think I can smell her musky perfume. I accepted a long time ago, it’s just my imagination.

But still, I race to the front door, and throw it open; almost slipping over as I hurry down the path in my slippers. But as I expected, the girl has gone – if she was ever there in the first place.