My vision blurred instantly as tears welled in my eyes. “I’d love to,” I whispered, my voice cracking.
I felt his lips curve into the faintest smile against my skin. He exhaled — a long, unsteady breath — and pulled me tighter into his chest. I hooked my leg over his, desperate to be closer still, as if I could shield him from that lingering ache.
“She would have loved you,” he whispered finally, voice rough with emotion.
My heart swelled so full I thought it might burst. I smiled into his chest, my tears soaking his skin.
“I know she’d be proud of you,” I whispered back.
He didn’t answer, but I felt it — the small tremor in his chest, the press of his lips to my hair, the quiet that said more than words ever could.
And lying there in his arms, I knew it without a shadow of doubt:
I would never love anyone the way I loved Henry Chase.
Forty Two
Henry
12th November 1996
Rain.
It always starts with rain.
It’s hammering against my window, rattling the glass. I’m lying in bed, the duvet tucked under my chin, watching the shadows of tree branches sway in the storm outside. The sound used to comfort me — Mum said the rain was the sky washing itself clean. But tonight, it sounds different. Heavier. Colder.
There’s a flash — blue and red — and my whole room lights up for a split second. Then darkness. Then light again. It keeps pulsing, filling the walls with moving colour. I sit up, heartthudding. Outside, the glow bounces off the wet street, painting my window with sirens.
Then I hear it — the low thud of a car door shutting. Another. Then boots crunching over gravel.
A knock. Hard. Fast. It echoes through the house. My chest tightens. Dad’s voice answers from downstairs, groggy and confused.
Another flash of blue fills my room as I swing my legs from the bed. The floor is cold beneath my feet. I creep to the door, pressing my ear against it. The rain is louder now, drumming on the roof, muffling voices below.
I can just make out the deep, careful tone of a man speaking — words slipping in and out of the rain.
“…so sorry to come by this late, Mr Chase…”
A pause.
“…there’s been an accident…”
The next flash of lightning floods the landing as I push the door open a crack. The light catches on the family photos that line the hallway — smiles, birthdays, a thousand frozen moments. My stomach turns over.
I tiptoe onto the landing, careful not to make the floorboards creak. The voices are clearer now, drifting up through the half-open door at the bottom of the stairs.
“…we believe she died quickly… no pain…”
Another pause. The rain stops for half a second, as though the world itself is holding its breath.
“…drunk driver… sorry for your loss.”
Then silence. No — not silence. A sound I’ll never forget.
My father’s cries.
They tear through the house, raw and broken, the kind of sound that doesn’t sound human anymore. The kind that splits something inside you and never quite lets it heal again.
