The room had barely changed. Mum and Dad had offered me the polite ultimatum that any items uncollected a year after moving to my new flat would be disposed of as they saw fit, so it was far sparser than when I’d last stayed. However, Elana usually slept up here when the children stayed over, so the rows of shelves were still full of children’s books and games. The curtains and bedding were the same mint-green stripes that I’d chosen for my thirteenth birthday, and the knotty, multicoloured rug that some enthusiastic Charis House pupils had created still took up half of the modest floor space.

I brushed my teeth in the tiny porcelain sink, changed into my warmest pyjamas, and slipped into bed, wincing as I remembered quite how icy it got here in winter. And then, cocooned in the familiarity of home, I let the memories wash over me, the tears following closely behind.

Christmas, twelve years earlier

For the first time ever, I wasn’t dreading the Charis House Christmas Spectacular. Jed was planning something with his new wife, Mia, and so instead of us being cajoled into a cringe-worthy duet, I was going to ignore all parental pressure and perform something authentically me for the first time ever. At fifteen years old, this meant reciting a spoken-word poem I’d written about how Christmas had been hijacked by capitalism. It would surely be lauded as ground-breaking creative genius by all who heard it. And if anyone thought it was depressing twaddle that didn’t even rhyme, that merely showed up how little they knew about true art.

Even better, the new boy would be coming. He’d agreed to play lead guitar in the school band, and I couldn’t wait to have a legitimate reason to stare at him for a full three minutes. I’d first spotted him at Charis House eight days earlier, and had thought about little else since. He’d been chopping wood outside the workshop – one of the activities Dad used to help pupils channel aggression – and despite the temperature being close to freezing, he’d removed his jacket and jumper and revealed a non-regulation sleeveless top that showcased his flexing muscles with every stroke of the axe.

While I’d had a chance to observe him as I approached, lumbering slightly from the weight of a giant cake tin, once I got closer I instinctively dropped my eyes, focusing on the path ahead.

‘Hey.’

I took another few tentative steps. Surely he wasn’t talking to me?

‘Hey, girl with the massive tin,’ he called again, and I was compelled to stop and swivel around to where he now stood, leaning on the axe with one hand, sweeping sandy, chin-length hair off his face with the other.

My heart scrabbled about in my chest like the dogs when they heard the postman approaching.