Category: Sarah

The examiner’s pen scratched across the form. “Congratulations,” he said without looking up, “you’ve passed.” Julia’s hands trembled as she texted Sarah from the Shrewsbury test center parking lot: “FREEDOM!!!” Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Nothing came back.

The following afternoon, Eleanor stood in the driveway, keys dangling from her finger. Behind her sat a black Mini Cooper, its paint job showing patches where the sun had faded it unevenly. “For emergencies only,” Eleanor said, dropping the keys into Julia’s palm with a wink that suggested otherwise. Julia slid behind the wheel, inhaled the scent of aged leather and pine air freshener, and felt the digital world temporarily shrink in her rearview mirror.

The absence of Sarah’s name on her phone was, at first, a relief; maybe she’d finally gone on that trip to North Wales, or found a distraction that lasted more than a weekend.

But by the second day, Julia felt the tickle of unease. She sent a message, then another, each one more obvious in its need: “Are you alive?” “Earth to Saz.” “SOS if Miller has kidnapped you.” The messages delivered, but the read receipts never flicked on. The last green dot on Sarah’s social appeared two days ago, at half past midnight, with the caption: “Why do mornings happen to people?” Julia reread it until it felt like a clue.

On the third day, Julia called. The line rang out, then went dead. She called the stables, got the owner, who said, “She’s probably just out with her boyfriend. I’ve learned not to ask too many questions.” He sounded more bored than worried.

Julia went to her mother, who was in the kitchen, standing in front of the open fridge as if trying to decode its contents. Charlotte was softer now, her hair a wild frizz haloing her head, her voice prone to trailing off mid-sentence.

“I think Sarah’s missing,” Julia said.

Charlotte closed the fridge, but not the thought. “She’s always been a bit of a gypsy, hasn’t she?”

Julia shook her head. “No messages. No Instagram. Not even a like on the last thing I posted.”

Charlotte considered this, then nodded, as if conceding the point. “Should we check the stables?”

“They haven’t seen her since last week.”

Charlotte leaned against the counter, the weight of the day suddenly too much for her legs. “Maybe she’s with a friend. Or she’s gone off with that man.” She said it with the ambiguous accent of approval and disdain.

Julia let the silence build, then said, “Can we go to her flat?”

Charlotte hesitated, then seemed to decide that yes, this was a normal thing to do.

They drove into town, the heat a white sheet over the roads. Sarah’s flat was above the bakery, windows painted shut, the front door sticky with humidity. A neighbor let them in—an old woman who wore a housecoat even in summer and who eyed Julia as if she was casing the place.

“You family?” the neighbor asked.

“Cousin,” Julia said.

“Hasn’t been back in days. Heard some noise last Thursday, thought she was moving furniture. Since then, nothing. Do you want a cup of tea?”

“We’ll just check the flat,” Julia said, and led her mother up the carpeted stairs, Charlotte gripping the handrail as if the climb was a small Everest.

The door wasn’t locked, just latched from the outside. Inside, the place was as Sarah had left it—clothes on the drying rack, a half-emptied wine bottle on the dressing table, the sharp scent of horse gear and perfume.

But there were signs that something had shifted. Her wallet was on the kitchen counter, open, cards still inside. Her boots were by the bedroom door, muddy but upright. Her phone was not on the charger, nor anywhere else they searched.

Julia walked the perimeter of the flat, checking for any detail out of place. The duvet was crumpled at the foot of the bed, as if she’d left in a hurry. A mug in the sink with the remains of instant coffee, black. In the bathroom, her makeup was scattered across the counter, brushes left mid-use.

Charlotte stood in the middle of the lounge, hands clasped. “It’s so… Sarah.”

Julia found herself angry at the flat for not yielding any clues. “It’s like she just evaporated.”

Charlotte nodded, the lines in her face tightening.

They left, letting the door click behind them. Downstairs, the neighbor said, “I’ll keep an ear out. But she’s a grown woman, isn’t she? Probably just found herself a better place to stay.”

The following day, Julia and Priya walked side by side through the sunlit quad toward the cafeteria. Julia balanced a tray stacked with grilled chicken wrap, a mound of couscous salad, and a black coffee. Priya carried a bowl of curried lentils, its steam curling around her fingers. They found a table by a window where the midday light cut stripes across the floor.

Julia picked at the crust of her wrap, gaze fixed on her plate but answering Priya’s questions as she ate. When she finished she looked up. “It’s my cousin Sarah,” she said, voice low. “She’s been missing since last week. No one’s heard from her, and… I don’t know if they’re taking it seriously.”

Priya’s coffee cup paused halfway to her mouth. She set it down and reached across the table, covering Julia’s hand with hers. The heat from their palms flickered between them. “You should call the police,” Priya said quietly. “It won’t hurt to try.”

Julia swallowed. Her throat felt thick. “Do you think they’d listen to me?”

Priya’s thumb brushed Julia’s knuckles. “You’re worried, and that’s reason enough. You’re not alone in this.”

When the cafeteria bell sounded, Julia stood and gathered her tray. Outside, the late afternoon sun warmed the pavement as they walked toward the parking lot. Julia’s new friend fell into step beside her, the late-day light turning Priya’s hair to copper. Julia fished her phone from her pocket, heart pounding. Priya gave her an encouraging smile and left her alone. By the time she reached her car, she’d dialed the number, ready to speak up—for Sarah, and for herself.

The officer who answered was young, but already had the voice of someone who’d learned how to stall. “Have you tried contacting her friends? Boyfriend? Sometimes people just want space.”

Julia said, “This isn’t normal for her. She’s never missed work without calling.”

He said he’d “make a note of it,” and then asked for a photo. Julia sent one from her phone—a snap of Sarah astride a horse, laughing at the camera, a red-haired goddess in high spirits.

“Looks like quite a character,” the officer said.

“She is,” Julia replied, her throat suddenly tight.

That night, Julia lay awake in the dark, phone clutched in her hand, refreshing the chat window every few minutes.

She thought about the flat, the wine on the dressing table, the way the boots were lined up like soldiers.

She wondered what it would feel like, to disappear so completely, to leave behind only the suggestion of self.

She wondered what it would take to bring Sarah home.

At 2;00 on 5th September, her 17th birthday, Julia stepped into Ludlow College’s psychology corridor and paused. The waxed linoleum gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, and every footstep echoed like a secret being passed around. A faint tang of cleaning solvent hung in the air, mingling with the low hum of students’ whispered nerves. Julia’s chest loosened for the first time that day; she hadn’t known how heavy her shoulders felt until they dropped.

That morning in Computer Science had felt like trudging through hot sand. She’d sat at a narrow desk while boys nearby tossed “harmless” jokes over their keyboards—snide remarks about girls and coding, each one a tiny spark against the back of her neck. It was made worse when Tom, Sarah’s ex-boyfriend had leaned over her station to “help,” his breath smelling of energy drink, then smirked when she corrected his syntax. She’d stayed polite, biting back a retort, all the while feeling her confidence shrink behind her quiet smile. And he had returned to his friends at the other end of the room with a remark followed by giggles about the “little girl”.

Now, in this hallway outside PSY101, Julia saw instead a scattering of students—flickers of color in hijabs, dreadlocks, and band T-shirts—assembling at the door. The room beyond promised ideas and case studies, not testy group dynamics where she was the lone female. She inhaled again, letting relief bloom in her lungs.

A few feet away, Priya leaned against the wall, one foot pressed flat, the other toes hooked into the baseboard. She wore a loose red shirt and orange skirt that complimented her warm skin. Her hair was pulled back in a long ponytail, and she traced idle circles on her canvas tote. Priya’s eyes lifted when Julia brushed a strand of hair from her forehead—a practiced lift, like she’d been scanning the hallway for someone who looked out of place.

Julia’s grip tightened on her backpack strap. Priya recognized that rigid stance—the defensive crouch of someone who’s been talked over or stared at all morning. Priya’s gaze flickered past politeness to something more subtle: the sharp tension around Julia’s jaw, the quick dart of eyes measuring everyone who passed.

When the lecture room door clicked open, Priya offered a small, encouraging smile. “Is this seat taken?” she asked, nodding toward the empty chair beside her.

Julia slid in and sank onto the cushion, her shoulders finally relaxing. Around them, the projector whirred to life, casting a pale rectangle of light onto the whiteboard. The lecturer’s voice filled the space with stories of experiments and brain scans, but Julia felt something simpler settle in her chest: acceptance. 

Julia hesitated a moment at the threshold before taking her place beside Priya, letting the ambient din of students—some still shuffling in, others already whispering across tabletops—wash over her. As she sat, the cushion caved just enough to remind her she was no longer in the glass echo chamber of the computer science lab. She released her breath, only now aware she’d been holding it. The relief was physical, as if her body were finally allowed to uncoil, vertebrae by vertebrae.

The lecture theatre was imperfect: the swing-arm desklets squeaked, and the air was too warm and flecked with dust motes. But Julia felt, for the first time all day, invisibly normal. She watched Priya uncap a pen and write her name in curly script at the top of a fresh notebook page. Their thighs nearly touched. Priya offered a sideways smile, and Julia—surprised by her own boldness—returned it.

The projector stuttered on, flooding the room with the pale blue promise of PowerPoint. The lecturer, a woman with cropped silver hair and a voice that cut clean through the chatter, greeted them with, “Welcome to the study of why we do what we do.” Something about her confidence—her refusal to perform even a millimeter of apology for her presence—anchored Julia. She let herself be drawn in.

The lecture was a primer: classic case studies, hypotheses masquerading as fact, a parade of famous disasters and their psychological postmortems. All the while, Priya’s notes spiraled outward—little arrows, highlighted words, stick figures slumping or erupting with glee. Julia found herself copying the teacher’s words, then drifting into annotation: She remembered the girl who had handed her a birthday card in Year 8, then laughed about it later to her friends; she thought of the way Sarah could make anyone feel seen, even the teachers who hated her. She thought, too, of Miller, and how his manipulation could be so overt and yet so invisible, even to someone as sharp as Sarah.

Partway through, Priya leaned over, whispering, “Some of these experiments are totally made up, you know. The Stanford prison one? The guy basically told the guards to be sadists.”

Julia blinked, then looked closer at the slide. She’d always assumed the studies were sacrosanct—like laws of physics. She smiled. “So it’s all a con?”

Priya’s voice was soft, but the words carried a hidden kernel of glee. “It’s people. Of course it’s a con.”

It was like a secret handshake. Julia let herself laugh, and felt the remaining tension in her chest dissolve into a warm, low hum.

After the lecture, they walked together to the quad. The September rain had paused, leaving the world crisp and glassy. Priya invited her to the student union for chai, and Julia said yes without thinking. Later at a little table in the library, they talked about their A-levels, their families, the weirdness of independence. Priya’s parents had come to England from Bangalore; her mother called every night, sometimes twice. “She thinks I’ll choke on an apple and die alone,” Priya said, biting the string of her teabag. “She’s probably right.”

Julia offered a smile. “You seem pretty self-sufficient.”

Priya shrugged. “You learn to be. Or you don’t survive.”

Julia nodded. She understood that lesson intimately, even if she’d never named it before.

Afterwards, Julia biked home, the sky already darkening. She replayed the day in her mind: not the slights or the grating voices, but the kernel of comfort in the lecture hall, the warmth of a friendship that, if not yet real, was at least possible. She imagined what it would be like to belong—fully, and without reservation.

She stood on the pedals and let the hill take her, the cold air breaking against her teeth.

Eleanor’s car was already in the drive when Julia got home. Inside, the hall smelled of Charlotte’s perfume and something baked. “Happy birthday, darling,” Charlotte said, and stepped aside.

Eleanor held out an envelope. On the front, in her grandmother’s careful hand: *Driving Test – Shrewsbury, 25th October.* Inside, a column of lesson dates, three per week, slotted around her college timetable like someone had studied it.

Julia looked up. Eleanor’s expression offered nothing sentimental—just a slight lift of the chin, as if to say, “well, go on then.”

That evening, Julia texted Sarah: *on the road soon. road trip?*

The reply came as a photo: Sarah squinting into bright sun on some beach, Miller’s arm at the edge of the frame. *um YES. we’re going everywhere.*

They met at the top of Lyth Hill, just as the sky was spitting rain—Sarah’s idea, of course. She’d texted the coordinates at dawn, a pin dropped in the middle of nothing, with a note: “Bring food, I’ll bring the trauma.”

Julia biked up the bridle path, legs already sore from the climb, and found Sarah waiting at the highest point, boots caked in mud, arms stretched out as if to embrace the wind.

“Look at this,” Sarah said, voice wild with adrenaline. “It’s like fucking Scotland.”

Julia nodded, breath visible in the cold. “It’s dramatic.”

Sarah grinned and opened a thermos, pouring two cups of something steaming. “Irish coffee. Don’t tell Mum.”

They huddled in the lee of a rock, cups braced between their knees, the world below them a map in shades of olive and slate. For a while, Sarah talked about the stables—someone had been sacked for stealing, a new horse had arrived, there were plans to host a charity gymkhana. She told the stories with her usual rapid-fire relish, but every so often her eyes flickered, the mask slipping.

Julia waited.

After a silence, Sarah said, “So. Me and Miller.”

Julia kept her face blank.

“It’s fun, mostly,” Sarah said, swirling her coffee. “He’s crazy generous. Last weekend he took me to some private club in Birmingham—five star hotel, champagne, dinner, the works. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Julia said, “He’s not your usual type.”

Sarah laughed, too loud. “God, no. He’s old enough to be my uncle. But he’s got this energy, you know? Like he actually listens to me.”

“Does he?” Julia said, quietly.

Sarah shrugged. “Sometimes. When he’s not talking about his projects. Or himself.”

A gust of wind rattled the gorse bushes. Julia let it fill the silence, then said, “You don’t sound sure.”

Sarah stared at the horizon. “He gets weird. Like, sometimes he’ll text ten times if I don’t reply. Or he’ll just show up at the yard, like he owns the place. He gave me a new phone—said mine was shit, but I think he wanted to check who I was talking to.”

“That’s not normal,” Julia said, her voice flat but not unkind.

Sarah drained her cup. “I know. But it’s not like he’s scary. Just… intense. Maybe I need that, I don’t know.”

Julia wanted to say, “You don’t,” but held it in. She watched Sarah’s profile—sharp, defiant, the line of her jaw set against the wind.

Sarah bumped her shoulder. “You’re judging me.”

“I’m not,” Julia said, and it was true. She didn’t judge. She just observed.

Sarah stood, brushing crumbs from her jeans. “Look, I know you’re the clever one. But I’m not stupid. I can handle it.”

“I never said you couldn’t.”

Sarah grinned, the bravado back. “Anyway, it’s not like I’ve got a queue of better options. Besides, you know what they say: go big or go home.”

They packed up, and Sarah insisted on racing her down the hill, shrieking as the bikes skidded over shale and nearly went airborne on the last dip. At the bottom, gasping and filthy, Sarah threw her arms around Julia and said, “You’re my anchor. Don’t let me float away, okay?”

Julia hugged her back, feeling the bones in Sarah’s shoulders, the familiar tremor of adrenaline under her skin.

“Never,” Julia said.

But she knew that anchors sometimes broke, and that some people wanted to drift, even if it meant being lost.

They parted at the crossroads, Sarah waving until she was just a blur of red boots and wild hair in the distance.

Julia cycled home in the deepening gray, the taste of Irish coffee lingering on her tongue.

She wondered if she’d ever learn how to stop watching.

Or how to start saving people from themselves.

She aced her GCSEs, of course. Not just “did well,” but achieved the kind of sprawl of nines and A*s that made teachers quietly resentful and her mother vaguely embarrassed. The letter from St Teresa’s called her “a credit to the institution,” which was how Julia suspected most people would remember her: not as a person but as an accomplishment.

That summer, with the first term at Ludlow College still months away, she drifted in the borderland between childhood and whatever came next. Hillside Haven felt emptier than ever. Her mother was busy with a new book, her moods swinging between euphoric productivity and days of staring at the wall, unmoving. Eleanor made only brief visits, now, and on those rare afternoons seemed fixated on probing Julia’s future, not her present.

Sarah, by contrast, was at the center of a world in motion. She worked double shifts at the stables, spent her evenings in the pubs, and her nights, increasingly, in the orbit of the county’s better-known wild children. She’d made a name for herself: “Party Saz.” It was a badge she wore with the defiant pride of the truly impervious.

At the end of July, Sarah texted: “You have to come to this, Jules. Seriously. Best night of the year. Don’t bring your mother.”

The house was in the next village, set back behind an avenue of ancient beeches, its stone facade glowing in the sunset like it had its own source of light. The lawn was already a ruin—cars parked at wild angles, shoes lost in the borders, the air above it vibrating with the static of voices and distant, urgent music.

Sarah met her at the gate, hair newly copper and eyes rimmed with kohl. She wore a vintage slip dress, bare-legged, with cowboy boots that made her two inches taller and three times as visible.

“You look like a cultist,” Julia said, admiring the effect.

Sarah grinned. “You look like a narc. Come on, we’ll fix that.”

In the cloakroom (which was, in fact, the marble-floored entrance hall) Sarah produced a bottle of strawberry gin and forced Julia to drink. It tasted like nail polish remover with a hint of fruit, but Julia drank and coughed and Sarah said, “That’s the spirit.”

The crowd inside was a version of every party Julia had ever observed, but cranked to a higher resolution: people vibrating with the possibility of freedom, the edges of every conversation blurred with laughter or aggression or a shifting, animal sexuality. There were clumps of old St Teresa’s girls, now with new piercings and more practiced sneers. Boys with stubble and designer trainers and the glazed, invincible confidence of the locally rich. Julia recognized faces from school, but the context was so different she felt unmoored.

She stuck close to Sarah, who moved through the party like a comet—picking up drinks, collecting admirers, scattering her light but never quite landing anywhere. She introduced Julia to people, often with an exaggeration: “This is my cousin, she’s scary clever. Can hack your phone just by looking at it.” Or, “Jules can drink anyone under the table.” The legend grew with each retelling.

At some point, Julia lost track of Sarah. She found herself on a bench looking over the the back terrace, which had been converted into a kind of open-air lounge: candles everywhere, the reek of weed mingling with smoke from the fire pit, couples pressed together on the stone balustrade. She watched the crowd, cataloguing: who was pairing off, who was being left behind. There were deals being made, alliances formed and broken in the span of a song. Julia moved to an unoccupied bench, nursed her drink, letting the warmth settle, and wondered if this was what adulthood felt like—no rules, only the momentum of desire.

A commotion at the edge of the garden caught her attention. Two men were arguing: one was a bearded giant in a rugby shirt, the other wore a smart dinner suit and the smug smile of someone who’d already won the fight. The crowd parted as the latter man approached, shaking his head and laughing, holding a drink aloft in a parody of a toast.

He was older—mid-thirties, maybe—and exuded a practiced, almost theatrical confidence. Julia recognized him from local gossip: Miller, the construction boss who’d been on the front page of the paper for building a new row of eco-houses in the valley. He was, as Charlotte had once described him, “one of those men who enters a room as if he owns the air in it.”

He spotted Sarah across the lawn and beelined toward her. Julia watched the encounter: Miller leaned in, said something low, and Sarah laughed, not with delight but with the practiced ease of someone who knew how to handle attention. He offered her his drink, which she accepted, and then he placed his hand lightly on her back—territorial, but not yet presumptive.

The dynamic was instantly clear: Sarah as the prize, Miller as the hunter. Julia watched the patterns shift around them, the way other women marked the interaction with narrowed eyes, the way men recalibrated their own approach. It was like watching a chess match unfold at triple speed.

A girl in a feathered minidress slid next to Julia, whispering, “He’s fucking relentless, isn’t he?”

Julia smiled. “Does he always get what he wants?”

The girl shrugged. “Most of the time. Don’t think Saz will let him, though. She’s got more sense.”

Julia wasn’t so sure. She watched them as they drew closer and indulged in some selfies

Later, inside, Julia found herself in the library, the only quiet room in the house. She sat on the velvet window seat and let the pulse of the party fade to a distant vibration. She thought about Sarah, and about Miller, and about the world of adult games she was now expected to navigate.

A couple stumbled in, giggling, and then, realizing Julia was there, retreated without a word.

She finished her drink and stood, her head swimming but her perception sharper than ever.

In the hall, she nearly collided with Sarah, who was flushed and a little unsteady.

“Having fun?” Julia asked.

“God, yes,” Sarah said, but her smile didn’t quite stick. “He’s a bit intense, though.”

“You can always leave,” Julia offered.

Sarah shook her head. “He’s giving me a lift home. Anyway, I can handle myself.”

Julia believed her, but still felt the undertow of unease.

They left together, arms linked for support, and waited in the gravel drive as Miller fetched his car. It was a new Range Rover, windows tinted, leather seats still with the dealership sheen. He opened the door for Sarah with a flourish.

“You’re both welcome,” he said, looking Julia up and down with a frankness that was almost a challenge.

“I’ll walk,” Julia said, polite but firm.

Miller shrugged, as if to say, your loss, and the car pulled away in a spray of loose stones.

Julia watched the taillights disappear, then set off down the lane, the night air bracing against her face.

The path home was longer than she remembered. Alone under the cathedral arch of trees, she replayed the night’s events, analyzing every word, every gesture. The world was full of patterns, but some were harder to see until it was too late.

When she reached Hillside Haven, the house was dark except for her mother’s study, where a thin beam of light bled under the door.

Julia tiptoed past, up to her room, and lay on her bed fully clothed.

She didn’t sleep.

Instead, she mapped out, in perfect detail, the entire evening: the faces, the voices, the way desire and danger could look so alike from a distance.

She made a note to watch Miller. Closely.

Not for herself.

But for Sarah.

By the first week of January, the Christmas chill had been replaced by a syrupy, low light that seeped into the corridors of St Teresa’s and made the girls look jaundiced. Julia arrived back at school with her hair still carrying a faint whiff of woodsmoke, and a secret satisfaction at having outlasted another holiday without drama.

The final two terms unspooled with the mechanical efficiency of a well-oiled clock: revision periods, mock exams, the slow gravitational collapse of friendships into study alliances. Julia’s reputation as “the quietly lethal one” was secure, her grades unimpeachable, her social standing—by design—neither high nor low but untouchable. She moved through the world like a shark: always forward, always watching.

But every night, after prep and shower and lights-out, she’d lie on her bunk with her phone beneath the pillow, waiting for the familiar ping of a message from Sarah.

At first the updates came in bursts: blurry selfies from pub toilets, voice notes full of overlapping laughter and scandal, the occasional unsolicited horse video (“He’s eating his own shit, look at this legend”). Sarah’s world was one of chaotic abundance—drinks, men, drama—each episode told with the hyperbolic flair of a street preacher or a first-year drama student. There were affairs with chefs and night-time rides on the Mynd, a saga about a tattooed DJ who crashed a quad bike into a sheep and, unforgettably, a disastrous attempt at “adult speed dating” at the Rose and Crown in Ludlow. Not to mention skinny-dipping in a pool in Snowdonia.

Julia replied with a studied minimalism: “That’s mental,” “Only you,” “Let me know when you’re famous.” She never offered details of her own days, never mentioned the hidden worlds behind her facade, the patterns she saw in other girls’ self-destruction. When Sarah pressed—“You seeing anyone?” “Bet you’re breaking hearts over there”—Julia always demurred, painting her life as an endless loop of homework and library shifts, a monastic existence that was both shield and sieve.

Sometimes, in the hush of the dorm, she’d scroll back through their messages, analyzing Sarah’s syntax for shifts in mood. On nights when the updates went silent, Julia found herself oddly tense, as if she’d misplaced something valuable and couldn’t remember where to start looking.

The girls at St Teresa’s noticed her change, of course. She grew even more withdrawn, her smiles rarer, her habit of disappearing between lessons more pronounced. Only Helena dared comment: “You’re like a nun with a secret, you know that?”

“Maybe I am,” Julia said, not unkindly.

She watched the world move on. Friends fell out, got back together, plotted their universities and gap years. Some girls imploded from the pressure, others frayed slowly at the edges. Julia let it all flow past, her real life reserved for the small rectangle of light that connected her, every night, to Sarah’s.

She knew the time would come when she’d have to choose a story to tell about herself.

But for now, the duality suited her.

Let them think she was invisible.

That was always where the real power lay.

The last Sunday of the holiday break arrived in a spasm of frost, the world so white and numb that every boot print was a crisp fossil in the garden’s skin. Julia came downstairs to find her mother in the kitchen, standing silent at the back door, watching smoke from her own breath curl against the pane. She wore her old university hoodie and the expression of a woman already grieving the return to routine.

“You’re up early,” Charlotte said, voice barely above the hum of the radiators.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Julia said, which was true in the narrowest sense; she’d lain awake most of the night, scrolling through chat logs and news, waiting for the first stir of light.

They sat opposite each other in the breakfast room, each with a mug of instant, the lines of the day mapped out in silence. It was the same kitchen Julia had grown up in, but the house felt increasingly like a set, the soft close of cupboard doors, the faint tick of the freezer, all rehearsed and hollow.

At half past nine, the phone rang.

Charlotte answered, and in the span of a single syllable—her voice, suddenly charged—Julia knew it was Sarah.

She’d seen her cousin last Christmas, though they’d grown up nearly as sisters: Sarah three years older, incandescently alive, every hair color on the wheel, every piece of clothing a dare. Even now, Julia could recall the shimmer of her green biker jacket, the rings she wore stacked on every finger, the way she once burst into a funeral with a bouquet of wildflowers and made the widow laugh until she cried.

“Are you coming or not?” Sarah’s voice on the line, a command even when asking a favor.

Julia took the receiver. “Where?”

“Stables, then brunch at the King’s Head. Wear something you don’t mind wrecking. But bring something to glam up with for the pub”

She did.

*

The yard was a patchwork of churned mud and hoarfrost, horses steaming in their stalls and the stable hands moving with quick, efficient disinterest. Sarah was easy to find, even among the chaos: her signature red boots, hair twisted up in a bandana, a Barbour jacket that had survived at least two generations and looked it.

She waved Julia over with a pitchfork.

“Thought you’d ghosted,” Sarah said. Her tone was sharp but affectionate, like a cat that resented being left outside.

“Didn’t sleep,” Julia repeated, blinking in the cold.

“Welcome to the club.” Sarah set down the fork, came out into the yard and gave Julia a fierce, two-armed hug, nearly lifting her off the ground.

She smelled of hay, sweat, and that sweet, animal tang of horse. “You look taller. Or is that just the malnutrition?”

“Both,” Julia said. “I’m optimizing for minimal drag.”

“God, you’re so fucking weird,” Sarah said, but she laughed, and the laughter was like stepping into a warm room.

They set to work on the morning chores: mucking out stalls, refilling water, sweeping the endless silt that seemed to regenerate by itself. Sarah moved with the restless, unpredictable energy of someone who’d never learned to slow down. She recounted the stables gossip as they worked—the owner’s wife was sleeping with the feed rep, one of the ponies had a habit of unscrewing its own gate, the farrier was probably a cokehead but at least he was punctual.

Julia listened, letting the cadence of Sarah’s voice override her own internal static. She didn’t contribute much, but Sarah didn’t seem to mind. When they finished, Sarah led her into the tack room, which was warmer, lined with drying saddle pads and dust motes glowing in the strips of sunlight.

“So,” Sarah said, perching on a crate and lighting an illicit cigarette, “you seeing anyone?”

Julia snorted. “Not really my thing.”

“Bullshit,” Sarah said, exhaling blue smoke through her nose. “You just haven’t met anyone worth your time.”

Julia shrugged. “It’s a time management issue.”

Sarah grinned. “You know, when I was your age, I thought I’d have everything figured out by now. Instead I work here, drink too much, and go home to the same freezing flat every night.”

“It could be worse,” Julia said.

“Oh, it is,” Sarah replied. “But I’ve stopped fighting it. You should try it. Stop worrying what everyone thinks.” She stubbed the cigarette into a mug and stretched, catlike. “You want to go for a ride?”

“I don’t have any kit,” Julia said, stalling, but Sarah was already rifling through the locker.

“Borrow mine. You’re lighter than me, you’ll probably float away.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were mounted and moving up the bridle path, the horses snorting clouds into the air. The world looked different from up here: the fields a patchwork of shadow and hard light, the hedges bristling with frost.

They rode in silence for a while, the only sound the crunch of hooves on frozen grass and the wet click of a bit. At the top of the hill, Sarah drew up, looking out over the sweep of the valley.

“Sometimes,” she said, “I think I could just keep going. Ride until there’s no more roads. Just forests, hills, and nobody else.”

Julia pictured it: Sarah in exile, wild and sunburned, living on berries and horse sense. She wondered if, given the chance, she’d do the same. “What about your horse?” she said.

“Borrowed,” Sarah admitted. “Like everything else.”

Julia wasn’t sure if she meant the horse, the jacket, or something less tangible. She said nothing, and Sarah didn’t seem to need a reply.

On the way back, Sarah’s phone pinged three times. Each time she checked it with a brief frown, the light in her face flickering.

At the pub, Sarah went straight for the bar, ordered two pints and a plate of chips. She fielded two more texts while Julia tried to warm herself by the radiator, and when she finally sat down, her eyes were bright but her mood had shifted.

“Another disaster,” Sarah said, by way of explanation. “Remember Tom?”

“The one who dropped out of Sixth Form? Drove a Nissan with purple underlights?”

Sarah grinned, but the light didn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s the one. Turns out he’s got another girlfriend, in Oswestry. Didn’t even bother hiding it. I feel like a moron.”

Julia tried to imagine what comfort would sound like, failed, and settled for, “He’s the idiot.”

“I know.” Sarah chased her chips with a gulp of beer. “It’s just—I always think this one will be different. Then it’s the same, every time. I should have gone to uni. Or moved to London. Done something other than horses and heartbreak.”

“You make it sound worse than it is,” Julia said, but Sarah shook her head.

“No, I’m happy, mostly. I just… I don’t want you to end up like me. Don’t settle, okay? Don’t let them tell you what you should want.”

“I won’t,” Julia said, which was also true, in the narrowest sense.

They sat for a while in the hush of the emptying pub, the radiator ticking down, the clouds outside thickening toward snow. Julia finished her pint slowly, savoring the bitterness.

At the end, Sarah checked her phone again. “I need to get back,” she said, and it sounded less like an apology than a confession.

They walked out together, boots crunching on the icy steps.

At the stables, Sarah hugged her again, this time tighter, and whispered, “You’re my favorite, you know.”

Julia smiled, feeling the weight of it settle somewhere between her ribs.

After Sarah left, Julia lingered by the field gate, watching the horses for a long time, the air still except for the muted thunder of hooves on frozen ground. She thought about the tunnel, the secret under the earth, the things her mother had tried to pass down. She wondered if Sarah would understand, if anyone would.

When she finally walked home, it was nearly dark, the windows of the house lit up like lanterns against the cold.

Inside, the rooms were empty—her mother had gone to bed early. Julia sat alone in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a mug, and let herself drift, just for a moment, in the memory of Sarah’s laugh, the rhythm of hooves on frost, the knowledge that, for now, she was exactly where she wanted to be.