I once heard, “When you get older, you either find god or roses.” I found neither, only weeds. The garden is overgrown. I don’t have any tools, so I’m using a small fruit knife, the kind that has a sharp tip. I’m prodding it into the narrow gap between paving stones where the grass and dandelions are at their densest. Resisting all my effort, the tangled roots sit firm in the earth. Frustrated, I grip the knife with my fist and stab at the fronds until all that’s left is a pile of green-brown pulp. I’m still jabbing at the mulch when the sound of laughter distracts me, making the knife slip, slicing my thumb.

“Elya, is that you?” I call. Before I can shout again, my attention turns to the warm crimson blood dripping from the cut, making a mess on the mossy cement. Inspecting my thumb, the slash isn’t that big—I must’ve hit a shallow vein, so I run back to the house in search of a plaster.

Back in the kitchen, I grab at the drawers, jerking them out one by one. Where did I put the medical kit? In my haste, I stumble upon a small colony of moths living in a pile of forgotten tea towels. No longer trapped, they flutter straight at me, their brown wings beating. I wave my hands, shooing them away, flicking blood onto the cream-quartz tabletop. How long has it been since I’ve cleaned here? Days, months? 

Next, I try the odds-and-ends drawer, where my finger catches on something sharp. I pull out my hand and bend down to get a better view of what’s nipped me, and that’s when I see a flash of red between the yellow Post-it notes. Cautious not to hurt myself further, I attempt to remove the drawer entirely. But the wooden grooves have swollen over time, making it stall when I pull. Frustrated, I yank it with all my strength, sending the contents flying and scattering across the white tile floor.

There, lying in the middle of the maelstrom of useless objects, is a mousetrap; its spring has snapped. Stuck under the metal clasp is a small, furry creature, shrivelled and decaying. I jump back in surprise and disgust. After the initial shock subsides, I take a close look. That’s when I see it. Dangling around its neck is Elya’s red hair ribbon, neatly tied in a bow. I clasp my bloody hand to my mouth, smearing red streaks on my chin. An unpleasant tightness spreads over my chest, an electric tingle tugs at my fingertips, telling me I’m hyperventilating. 

I got the mouse as a gift. Elya had begged me for a pet, arguing that, since she had no siblings, she needed a companion. To see her excitement was reason alone to have bought the creature.

“It’s unbearable,” she had squealed after ripping off the unicorn-patterned wrapping paper. 

“I think you mean adorable,” I corrected her.  She often twisted her words, turning their meanings upside down: ‘worry’ became ‘bury’ and ‘hungry’ became ‘empty.’ 

She wasn’t listening. Too distracted with her arm in the cage, she had grabbed the tiny animal with her small pink fingers and was pulling it out. 

“I’m going to call it Red!” she announced. 

“Red? Really. I was thinking you’d choose something more like Snowy or Pearl.”

“No, it’s Red, like its eyes.”  

“Are you sure?” I pressed. But she didn’t answer me. She had lifted Red to her face and was muttering to it. The mouse’s whiskers twitched as if it understood. 

“What are you saying to it?” 

“My secrets,” she shot back, locking her ocean grey eyes with mine, before continuing to speak to her new pet. 

Seeing the mouse now clasped between the metal prong of the trap, the rim of my sight turns black, and the taste of bile licks at the back of my throat. Before I can stop it, I lean over and throw up a hot, yellow fluid. 

Standing up, I wipe my mouth on my forearm. The wetness of my lips feels slippery. I examine my arm, like a scientist with a specimen, and I notice my fine brown hairs are standing erect, each coated with saliva. From the corner of my eye, I swear I see a movement pass the window. “Is there someone in the garden?” Despite the dizziness, I walk up to the patio doors, wondering who it could be. We’ve not had a visitor since…when? I rummage in my mind, but my memories are like leaves in a rushing river, ungraspable. I notice the windows are smeared with grime, while the beading has furry moss growing on it. But there’s no one there. The garden is empty and dark. The sun is hidden behind a murky cloud. I expect to see Elya playing in the dead grass. I squeeze my eyes shut and will her to reappear as if that’s all it would take: desire and belief to undo what’s already been done. 

When did I see her last? Was it this morning or yesterday? An unforgettable gloom rises in me, travelling from the pit of my stomach into my chest, pressing on my lungs like a dead weight. But I force myself to let the memory surface, even if it hurts. 

It was still early. I had stumbled into Elya’s room, sweaty and half-asleep. The light was a golden hue, warm and glistening, signifying another hot summer’s day. Curled up in a ball on the floor was Elya, her thin, delicate shoulders shuddering up and down with each sob. I lifted her messy black hair from her face, revealing burgundy blotches. But rather than taking her head and resting it on my chest and speaking words of comfort, my instinct told me to move away from her and walk up to her bedroom window that looked out over our garden. Here, I began trying each handle, methodically testing the lock mechanism. I even pushed against the window pane, applying all my strength to my palms. However much I pressed, the glass didn’t budge. Satisfied that no one could’ve got in, or out, I turned my attention to the rest of the room: the wardrobe doors were closed, the rainbow-patterned bed sheets ruffled as you would expect, and a pile of mixed soft toys lay in a pyramid of faux fur and synthetics. The normality of the room quietened my racing mind. Until my vision snagged on the metal cage that lay broken and crumpled in the far corner, where Elya usually threw her dirty clothes. The metal wires were twisted and flattened, as if the cage had been stamped on multiple times. The mouse was gone.

“Oh, darling, is this why you’re upset?” 

I lay down next to her. She allowed me to kiss her head, and my lips brushed against her matted and greasy curls. I nuzzled my nose into her neck and breathed in her scent of salt and old milk. I had never known Elya capable of such carnage. Where had this anger come from? 

“Why did you smash the cage, sweetheart?”

“It took Red.”

“It?” I flinched.

“Was someone else in your room?” 

She nodded somewhat reluctantly, her eyes darting furtively. 

“Can you tell me who?” Her lips were pinched closed. More fresh tears tumbled down her cheeks. 

“Wants more. It’s waiting,” Elya finally blurted out.

“For what?” I dared ask.

“You.”

“Me,” I stifle a laugh. “I’m not going anywhere, ever. Cross my heart.” I trace my finger across my chest. “The cage must’ve crashed. Had you put it up on the shelf? Yes, that’s it. And mice are wild creatures. Red’s just gone back to where all the other mice live: underground,” I tried to sound reassuring, for both of us. Logic always wins, even if it’s a lie.

“Red missed his mum?”

“Exactly. Red wanted to be with its family.”

“No, mummy. Red little. It wants more.” We stared at each other, neither of us blinked.

“Don’t,” I began to say, but stopped. “I think we need to cheer ourselves up, no?” 

Before she could answer, I was up and opening the wardrobe. I had to push hangers around until I found what I was looking for. I pulled out a lemon yellow dress with tiny blue flowers. “Let’s go spell casting,” I told her. Elya would demand we play this game every time we went out walking in the woods. “I’m a cat witch, mummy, teach me how to fly,” she would instruct. In response, I would make up foolish incantations like “I call on the forest sprites, make my paws wings and my fur feathers,” and she would skip and repeat my words over and over like a song.

An acrid smell like burnt tyres brings me back into the kitchen. I’ve left Red’s body on the cold tiled floor. I should move it, I think. What if Elya finds it? Or maybe I’ll tell her, and we can put the mouse in a shoebox and bury it together. We could have a ceremony. I’d ask Elya to write one of her sweet poems. What did they say in the hospital? I’m trying to remember. You hit your head badly. Keep an eye out for a concussion. Rest. Come straight back in if you start to feel dizzy or nauseous. I remember throwing up now, but surely that could be because I ate something old or maybe stress. Yes, stress. 

That’s why the accidents happen, isn’t it? With Elya’s peculiar behaviour at school, I hadn’t felt like myself. 

It had started small. Elya was caught collecting worms and keeping them in her pocket. Or she was spotted crouching in the undergrowth in the furthest corner of the grounds, closest to the forest. It was discovered that she had dug a hole in the soil big enough for her to curl her entire body in. When they attempted to move her, she dug her nails into the earth and had to be physically lifted out, kicking and wailing that her skin was on fire. 

The last time was the most concerning, as she had disappeared entirely. It was one of those beautiful late-spring days when the sky glowed a joyful sea blue. I received a call saying I needed to come to the school urgently. 

“Thanks for coming so quickly. Does Elya have an uncle or family friend who would need to visit her today?”

“No. It’s just the two of us right now.” 

“Are you sure?” 

I sigh. “What’s this about, exactly?”

“Elya left the school without permission.”

“Sorry, what?”

“We think she climbed over the railings.”

“Don’t you have cameras?” 

“Well, that’s the thing, we do. We’ve checked the log, and well, it’s odd.” 

The woman swayed, alternating between putting her weight on one foot and then the other, like a grass stalk swaying in a field. Glancing around her intermittently to check if anyone was nearby, they weren’t; so she continued. 

“We can’t explain it. I’ve watched the video twice. It was her. She even turned around and looked right at the camera. That ribbon she always wears was in her hair. Reception should’ve spotted it and stopped her. The gate is electric; only the main office can open it. They must’ve assumed it was you or a teacher.” 

“Me? So she wasn’t alone?” 

The teacher glares at her feet like she’s been caught in a trap.

“Well no, that’s what has us all perplexed. She was standing by the gate with someone. The footage is blurry; it was like they were covered in a black cloak, which is ridiculous. We think a bird flew. The video glitches for a second or two. When it resumes, your daughter is gone.” 

“Where is Elya now?” My voice is strained and high-pitched.

“It’s fine. All fine. She’s fine.” I’m swinging my head around, adrenaline pounding through my body, yet my feet remain rooted. A clammy hand takes hold of mine. “Elya is special; no harm would come to her.” I move my hand back and find myself staring at the teacher, who is looking at me suspiciously. 

“What did you say?” 

“I was just telling you that we found her almost immediately in the wooded area behind the playing fields. She was very upset. Kept talking about her pet Rud.”

“Red,” I corrected her. 

“No one could make any sense of it, but she kept asking if Red was okay. And that she had to give Red up, otherwise she and her mummy would not be safe.”

“But I’m here, and I’m fine. I don’t need my own child sacrificing herself or her pet for me. Is this part of your pastoral curriculum?”

“Please calm yourself. Children get easily confused.”

I don’t respond. The teacher fiddles with her lanyard, avoiding my stare.

“If that’s all, I’d like to take my daughter and go.” 

As I turned to walk away, she grabbed my arm. 

“It doesn’t have to be this way.”

“Sorry, what did you say?” 

“I didn’t say anything. Are you okay? Your forehead is bleeding.”

Back in the car with Elya, the words ‘keep mummy safe’ kept replaying in my head as I turned the ignition. “Have you got your seatbelt on?” I shouted to the back. All I got was a humph, which I took as a yes. But I didn’t check. “I always check, though, don’t I?” There was a reason why I didn’t this time. I thought I saw someone get in beside Elya. A darkness flitted past; if I’d blinked, I would’ve missed it. To double-check, I glanced in the rear-view mirror, but Elya was alone, her face turned away, so all I saw was her ponytail tied with a red ribbon that reminded me of a bloody gash in her tar-black hair.

The rest is a blank in my mind. Erased. 

Back in the house, I take a rag and begin to wipe away the drops of blood. A light buzzing sound makes me pause. The kitchen is alight with glowing dustmotes, illuminated by the afternoon sun. I wave my hands through them, mesmerised by their ethereal beauty. A murkiness enters my thoughts as I recall the motes in the hospital room. I try to grasp at the memory, like I would try to catch a particle of lint in my hand. 

I recall waking up half-sitting on a hard, cushioned chair, tongue swollen and parched. A thin cream blanket had been laid on top of me. But it was too short, barely covering my calves. The top of my head pinched with a sharp pain that felt like needles. I ran my fingertips across my hairline, mapping each lump and bump. As I sat there picking at my stitches, a nurse wearing a navy top and trousers entered the room; her face was kind but closed like a porcelain mask. “You’re not ready? That’s fine. Once you’ve finished here, there’s some paperwork. But please, take your time. I’m so very sorry for your loss.” A distant alarm started to beep. “That’s me,” and she was gone. 

The word loss rattled back and forth in my mind like a cryptic crossword I couldn’t work out. As I sat there waiting for the nurse to return and tell me she’d got the wrong person, I noticed the air above me twinkled manically with dancing motes. Their movement was agitated as if they had been disturbed by a large object. Elya used to call them dust fairies. I’d often catch her sitting cross-legged on the floor, her head surrounded by tiny floating particles like a halo. I would think she was blessed.  

Can I trust my memories? They appear like shards of broken glass, reflecting only partial truths. I’m standing at the back door. The summer sky, with its candy-floss clouds, has turned charcoal, casting an ominous shadow over my garden. Distant rumbles tell me a storm is rolling towards me. As if on cue, the rain begins to lash down, beating against the paving slabs, washing away the bashed weeds and forming big puddles. I follow the rainwater as it runs down the long glass panes, forming multiple rivulets. I’m so immersed that I don’t hear the quiet patter of feet enter the room. I also don’t notice the small, pearly-white fingers unfastening Red from its prison. 

At some point, I sense her presence next to me. When did Elya get here? She must’ve tiptoed, or maybe I fell asleep standing here staring. For the first time, I notice how tired I am. Every bone in my body is screaming for peace. She manoeuvres her hand into mine, and I squeeze. 

She mumbles, “It’s time.”

What now in the rain? I peer at her. Her large eyes, a swirling grey like the wash of waves on a beach, penetrate me. Okay, let’s go. 

 “A crocus to dress a princess, a snowdrop to tickle our ears and a daisy flower to make a crown,” I sing. 

We trudge silently, rain heaving on our heads: no umbrellas or raincoats. I didn’t bother trying to find them in the mess as Elya was insistent we leave straight away. She kept mumbling, “He’s waiting.” When I asked who she meant, all I got was a giggle. The further we get away from the house, the harder it is to catch a full breath. The air has grown damp and sticky. There’s also something else, sharper, that stings at the back of the throat. Then it comes to me: I can smell burnt hair. 

Elya is striding ahead. How are her short legs moving so fast? I start to drag behind her. “Wait,” I call, but she doesn’t slow. At some point, the path takes us off the rough pavement and into a field covered in thick summer grass. As we enter it, I realise the grass is taller than I thought; the more we walk, the higher it grows till it’s head height. I spin around trying to get my bearings. The rain continues to lash down, blurring my vision.  Which direction did we arrive from? Was it this one to the left or the one on my right?  

A pointed wind twirls around me, nudging and poking me as if herding me to walk on. A stick snaps somewhere close, and I jump. I twist and turn to try to see who’s there. Just as quickly as it started, the rain begins to thin. Thin silvery sunlight begins breaking through. The earth is sodden after months of dry weather, and with each step, I splash more and more flecks of mud onto my bare legs. I’m not surprised when I see it. Standing stoically a short distance away, amongst a cluster of yews, is the figure: coal-black and faceless. 

I go to grab Elya’s hand, but my hand swipes at empty air. It’s too late. And that’s when I notice the unmissable sunshine-yellow dress ahead of me on the path. I sigh in relief; she’s in sight, but too far away for me to catch up.  Even through the heavy rain, I can see the thin red ribbon, bright and defiant. Next to Elya stands the figure. There is something disarming in their posture that tells me they know each other.  I lift my wet hand to wave, and they both stare back at me in silence. 

It can’t end like this. I refuse. The figure, as if listening to my thoughts, nods. I look on as it takes Elya’s thin, pale wrist and removes the ribbon, letting it drop onto the soil, where it sinks in, disappearing from view. 

My own feet start to sink into the mud. Pulling me deeper into the earth. I start choking as the soil surrounds my body; it’s in my ears, my nostrils, my mouth. Just as I’m gasping for my last breath, the air around me curls into a slate coloured smoke peppered with red and blue lights. From somewhere close, a scorching heat erupts, threatening to melt my skin. All I want to do is close my eyes and sleep. A pair of thick, burly arms wrap around my waist and begin pulling me. I’m screaming. I don’t want to leave the car. I can’t. She’s still in there. Why won’t they let me go back in?

With each moment, I’m being pushed further away from her. An oxygen mask is placed over my mouth. “This is unit 1. One survivor, female.” As I lie there on the road, staring at the twinkling lights in the night sky, I see the dark figure slink into peripheral vision. Has it been there all along, waiting? “Take me.” Before the words have left my lips, I find myself floating above the scene. I observe the paramedics and the firefighters circle the car. I listen to them hollering like midwives at a difficult birth. Then I see her; a head of ebony curls emerge.

The desire to touch her, to draw her into my own body and absorb her, is overwhelming. I’m about to reach out for her when I feel an icy touch on my shoulder. I daren’t react, for I know what’s on the other end. Instead, I drop my gaze down to my hand, and there on my wrist, I see the pristine red ribbon. It hangs loosely on me, like a decoration. I tilt my head sideways, and from the corner of my eye, I sense the dark shadow. “You listened,” I utter under my breath. Before I’m returned to the car and the flames fully engulf me, I watch as strong arms remove Elya’s lithe body through the smashed windshield. Her black hair, wet and matted, clings to her skin. Clasped in her hands is a white mouse. She doesn’t look back, and I’m glad.