Morning should be ordinary—just the usual creak of a house waking up, the soft shuffle of everyday routines. But Roy’s day begins with a start. The moment someone speaks behind him, it’s not friendliness that follows—it’s fear. Roy nearly jumps out of his skin, then stammers an apology, because even he can’t believe how badly the moment landed.

“You weren’t meant to do that,” Roy says, trying to steady himself.

The reply is meant to sound casual, but it isn’t. The other man—already rattled by the day before it’s even fully arrived—admits he was out earlier. Vampire hunting. Bat watching. Ridiculous cover stories, the kind you use when you don’t want to say, I’ve been moving around because my life feels too loud inside my own head.

But then the real truth slips out anyway: he’s coming down with something. Not dramatic. Not catastrophic. Just mild fever and a headache—enough to make him tuck himself away, enough to make him decide the safer course is to drive home before he’s too sick to pretend he’s fine.

Roy’s immediately concerned. The lights go dark, and it’s not because anyone is trying to be theatrical—it’s because the house has no power at all. A shade of ordinary gloom spreads across everything, and with it comes suspicion, sharp and unwelcome.

“Malcolm,” someone mutters, as if the name itself is an alarm.

Because Malcolm is supposed to be the electrician. The kind of man who makes promises with a smile and fixes problems with confidence. Except now the power is gone, and Roy can’t help wondering whether Malcolm ever truly had the competence he claimed.

“Are we phoning his back?” Roy asks—half practical, half furious.

The response is immediate: not today. Tomorrow, perhaps. Today, the sick man needs bed. Pills are produced—sleeping pills, the kind that turn time into something softer and less dangerous. Roy offers to put up a sign on the door, as though the household can protect itself from the world with a simple notice.

And then, for a few minutes, the tension becomes quieter. The kind of quiet that makes you listen harder for what’s lurking beneath it.

Because while one part of the house tries to shut its eyes and rest, another part of the day is already sprinting toward disaster.

A greeting follows—bright, affectionate, almost too cheerful for the atmosphere. “Top of the morning to you,” someone says, sounding like they’re determined to hold the world together with sheer force of will.

Then the conversation turns—inevitably—toward the person at the center of so much change.

“How did he take it?” one asks, and Roy responds with the kind of shrug that carries far more emotion than a full answer ever could.

The man they’re talking about—Miles—barely looks up from his phone. He doesn’t react the way people expect. He doesn’t explode, doesn’t plead, doesn’t bargain. Instead, he simply shrugs, like the news has already lived in his head long enough to lose its shock.

But it’s not just another work trip. This is permanent. Flights have been messier in the past, the details tangled with family and promises and consequences that don’t evaporate just because someone wants them to. Still, distance might help. Distance might straighten out what time has twisted.

“We’re where we are,” the voice insists, refusing to let regret pull the future apart. “I don’t want to let that mess this up for us.”

There’s excitement too—real excitement, stitched into the words like thread through cloth.

“You excited? Can’t wait.”

Yet even the promise of a new life can’t erase what’s being left behind. The place itself—though it’s filled with gossips and busybodies—is still home. There are friends. There are routines. There are small familiar comforts that make leaving feel like cutting skin rather than just moving furniture.

And someone—someone else—wants to keep that thread unbroken, even as it threatens to unravel.

“Do you fancy going to the Rovers tonight?” the question comes, carefully tossed like a lifeline. Farewell drinks. A final gathering. A moment to pretend there won’t be consequences after the last pint is poured.

It might be awkward, someone admits. But the need underneath the reluctance is stronger than social comfort. There’s someone they need to speak to.

“Summer,” they say, and the name lands with weight.

They don’t want a call. They don’t want messages. They need to see her in person—because text is too easy to misunderstand, too easy to dodge. In person is harder to avoid. In person forces honesty.

So plans form quickly.