Shadows jostle across the white walls: it’s still windy outside. She scans the closed wardrobe doors, the distinctive shape of the Eames chair near the window, the silhouette of the lamp in the corner. Dean’s breathing is steady and even, his mouth slightly open. One muscular arm hugs his stomach, the other reaches toward the bedhead. She watches him for a few moments, marvelling at the symmetry of his face. She’s still not used to waking up next to him every day; a part of her refuses to believe it’s real.

Another cry. Amy.

Oli pushes back the sheets and slips out of bed. Dean murmurs but doesn’t wake; he rarely does. She stumbles on a shoe as she rounds the bed and steps into the hallway. Her fingers grope for the light switch. The empty corridor glows like a catwalk.

A strangled sob—not quite a cry this time, but still unnerving.

‘Amy?’ Oli’s voice is shaky as it threads through the air.

There’s no reply, and she’s tempted to go back to bed—it’s just past three, and she has to be in the office by eight. She pauses near the top of the staircase and grips the wooden rail, momentarily anxious she will fall into the dark abyss.

Her eyes follow the second hand of the grandfather clock illuminated in the moonlight. If the second hand reaches the seven before Amy cries again, it means I won’t be made redundant before Christmas. Dean won’t be injured in a horrible accident. She holds her breath as the black hand ticks on to the seven then proceeds to the eight. Stop it, she admonishes herself, don’t do that.

She hears, no, senses movement in the house as she pads down the hallway past the cluster of framed photographs in between the two bedrooms. Her mind has transitioned fully from the dream and is now working its way steadily through the day ahead. It’s clear she won’t be getting any more sleep tonight.

The wooden sign hangs at eye level on the bedroom door: Amy in cursive font. Oli always feels funny about shutting their doors at night, locking two little girls in their princess cells, but Dean insists on it.

Oli places one hand on the door, the other on the handle. Turns and pushes. A line of light cuts across the creamy carpet. Gauzy curtains ripple in the breeze like a woman’s long skirt. She falters. Did Dean leave the window open?

Her eyes go to the bed. Empty.

She steps forward, looking left then right and peering into the dark corners. Her legs weaken slightly. There’s Amy.