‘Surprise!’ I cry, as he opens the door. I dive in for a hug, breathing in his familiar aftershave, almost knocking him over, despite him being six foot.

‘Amelia!’ he says as I release him and step back, noticing he’s dyed his hair black and seems to have sprouted a moustache – moustaches are clearly invading my world. I’m close to telling him it does nothing for him, and the black hair makes him look as though he’s fallen headfirst into a barrel of tar, when he adds, ‘What are you doing here, love?’

He seems happy to see me, but there’s something else. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.

‘Well I’m pretty much waiting for you to invite me in.’ I rub my gloved hands together as a blustery wind catches my hair and blows it across my face like flames. ‘It’s bloody cold out here – snowed all the way from the station.’

‘Yes, sorry.’ He opens the door wider.

My throat closes as I look down the narrow hallway, and memories of Lark and Mum flood in. This is the house where I spent my childhood and teens. A four-bed modern detached that looks out over a huge expanse of grass leading to the River Tweed. A once crazy, noisy, happy house, that now feels far too quiet. Only Dad and Thomas live here now, and I’m guessing my brother is in his bedroom – once the dining room where we all shared happy meals, now extended to accommodate my brother’s needs.

Dad’s stepped to one side. ‘Come on, love, you’re letting the cold in,’ he says rubbing his hands together, bringing me back to the moment. I will myself to move, heave my rucksack off my back, and edge past him. He closes the door behind us.

‘So what brings you all this way?’ he says, following me into the kitchen. He picks up the kettle and gives it a little shake before flicking it on. ‘Nothing wrong, is there?’

Yep, just about everything.

I shake my head and sit down at the round kitchen table. It still has the pretty embroidered tablecloth draped over it that I remember Mum buying over ten years ago.

‘How’s work?’ I ask. Dad loves his job as curator at the local museum, and last time I spoke to him he was working on an exhibition about ancient crimes in the area. It fills his mind, leaving no space to dwell.

‘Good,’ he says. ‘Keeps me busy.’ I rest my case.

I ponder his earlier question, as he heads towards me with two steaming mugs of tea, places them on the table, and sits down opposite me.

So what brings you here?