It's a Saturday morning, the kind of morning that's soft with the sun's warmth, even in late October. The kitchen smells like butter and eggs, and I can hear the sizzle of Mum's frying pan as she hums quietly to a song on the Alexa. I lean back in my chair at the worn wooden table that used to belong to Grandma. It creaks beneath my elbows as I scroll through my phone. Isabel's text is still there, a blinking reminder.
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Iz: Come on, Em.
Iz: I'm begging you!
Iz: Literally just one night and then I'll never ask you again.
Iz: Ever.
Me: I said I'm not sure.
Me: Why can't we just do a movie night?
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This is the second time she's asked me this week, and I half smile to myself. She's been begging me to go for weeks, since I turned twenty-one, and for the first time, I feel like maybe... I might just say yes. But only for her. Movies and popcorn sounds like a much better idea to me.
I glance over at Alex, who's slouched against the kitchen counter with his headphones over his ears, the black ones with the cracked padding.
My Emo kid brother.
He's wearing a faded black band tee, the logo half-cracked and barely legible — something vintage and angry-looking. Over that, he's got a blue flannel shirt, unbuttoned and hanging loose, the sleeves pushed up past his elbows. His baggy jeans are also black and ripped at the knees, frayed threads dangling loose. A chain clips from his belt loop to his back pocket, and his battered blue Converse are scrawled over with doodles, whatever was in his head when he had a Sharpie in hand. His chipped black nail polish and a few silver rings catch the light as his thumb scrolls lazily over his phone, no doubt searching for some obscure band that none of us have ever heard of. The faint thrum of heavy music escapes his headphones, but it's just background noise, like everything else in the kitchen.
Mum doesn't mind. She keeps flipping the eggs, occasionally glancing at the clock on the wall, ticking softly in the quiet. The sunlight is dulled slightly through the roller blind on the window, weak but golden. The house is warm. It's an easy Saturday, nothing to rush for, no school for Alex or real chores to do.
"Chance of a cuppa, love?" Darren's voice pipes up from the stairs, and I look up to see him walk in, pulling on his jacket.
He's a big burly man from Burnley. A builder by trade and a family man at heart. He fills the doorway with his presence, broad-shouldered and solid. His round belly presses against the zipper of his worn blue jeans and he's wearing a fleece jacket on top, giving him the proper look of someone who enjoys his pints as much as his pasties. His head is clean-shaven, a shiny dome beneath a weathered red cap that's seen better days, frayed at the seams and sun-bleached. A full ginger neck beard sprawls under his chin, peppered with grey and untamed by razors. His cheeks are ruddy, and his nose carries that slight permanent flush of a man used to the cold. He wears old-fashioned tartan slippers, well-loved and squashed at the heels, shuffling across the floor with the soft pat of someone who's made this house his kingdom. There's a warmth to him — rough around the edges but unmistakably soft at the core.
He's in a good mood today because he's off to the match later with his mates, Garry and Mitch. Manchester City vs Wolves. We all know who'll win but he says, "it's the fun of the game!" He's grinning with that slight scruff on his face. His thick Bolton accent wraps around everything he says, turning even the most mundane sentence into something homely.
"The kettle's been on, you missed it." I say, not looking up from my phone.
"Oh, right. Well, I'll 'ave a brew, Linda." Darren leans against the doorframe, looking at mum with his typical half-joking grin.
Mum rolls her eyes but smiles, a soft, familiar smile. "You and your cuppas. You'll drink the whole pot, Darren."
"I'm a proper Northerner!" He laughs, that deep belly laugh that fills the kitchen.
Mum's face softens, and I notice the little crow's feet around her eyes, the way they crinkle when she smiles. She's wearing her old floral apron, the one she's had for years. The strings at the back are frayed and one is hanging by a thread, but she still wears it. It smells faintly of soap and cooking oil. Her strawberry blonde hair is tied back in a loose ponytail, wisps escaping to frame her pretty, round face. She's serving up the eggs, everything perfectly arranged on the plates. It's a simple breakfast, but it's the small rituals that make it feel comforting. The soft clink of the cutlery, the hiss of the toast now popping from the toaster.
"Alright," she says finally, "eggs are ready."
I glance at Alex again, still absorbed in his phone. He's so lost in whatever band he's listening to, he doesn't even notice the food's ready.
Darren looks over at him, his smile fading ever so slightly. He reaches out a finger and pokes Alex's shoulder. Alex finally looks up, a startled expression on his face. "What?"
"What d'ya think? House is on fire!" Darren jips, jokingly. Alex just rolls his eyes and finally pushes off the counter, shoving his phone into his pocket and walking to the table. He slumps into the seat next to me and I eye him, amused.
"And you can turn that music off while we're eating," Mum says, bringing the plates to the table, then gets the butter from the fridge. I immediately reach for it — I always have to butter my toast while it's still warm because I can't stand butter that's not melted.
I butter it quickly, spreading it right to the corners, watching it melt into the surface. The bread is thick-cut, golden brown, the edges just crisp enough. I salt my eggs — not too much — and take a bite while they're still steaming.
Alex stabs one of his yolks with his fork and it spills across the plate. He doesn't say anything, just eats in silence, chewing with that permanently unimpressed teenage look on his face. His long fringe keeps falling over his eyes and he keeps flicking it back, which is irritating me more than it probably should.
Darren settles into the seat across from us, reaching automatically for the teapot — it has a woollen green-and-yellow striped tea cosy on it that Mum knitted years ago. It's lopsided and absolutely hideous, but I love it. He pours himself a mug of builder's tea with a generous splash of milk and raises it with a sigh.
"Now this is the good stuff," he says. "None of that weak shite Gaz drinks. You'd think the man were brewing dishwater."
"Maybe," Mum mutters, pulling her chair in. "Would explain the smell coming off him."
I snort into my tea and Darren gives her a look of mock betrayal. "Ey! That's my mate you're slanderin'."
"You said it first," Mum replies sweetly.
I sip my tea — milky, no sugar, just the way I like it. The warmth spreads through my chest and settles somewhere deep in my bones. Alex doesn't like tea. Just like his outward appearance, he's the black sheep of the family who insists on having coffee instead. Strong black coffee, "like my soul," he says.
For a little while, the four of us just eat in companionable silence, the clink of cutlery and the quiet of the Alexa filling the spaces between bites. I let myself enjoy it — the taste of home, the comfort of it. I glance around the kitchen.
It's not flashy, by any means, but the kitchen and dining room were refurbished last year. New floors, new layout, Mum was thrilled. It's open-plan now and I love it. Less cramped. The walls are painted a soft sage green. The fridge is covered in photos — old ones of me and Alex in primary school uniforms, a picture of Mum on a beach in Cornwall, a few faded polaroids stuck under smiley face and flower magnets. One of them is of me and Isabel, grinning and holding massive iced coffees.
My eyes always skip over one photo in particular. Not because I don't see it... but because I do. It's her . Me and her, in little summery dresses, our young, innocent faces smiling up at Mum behind the camera.
She's not here anymore.
But I can't let it bother me. I know Mum's looking at me now. I can feel it. She can see the slight pained expression on my face as my eyes quickly dart away from the fridge. She knows how I feel.
"This is nice," I say suddenly, almost without thinking.
Me and Mum finally make eye contact, and there's a question in her eyes.
"Dunno," I add with a shrug. "Just thought... you know."
She smiles — that quiet, knowing smile. "Yeah. It is, love."
Darren's already reaching for another slice of toast. "Even with Mr. Misery Face over there," he says, gesturing at Alex. The mood immediately lightens up again. I don't think they noticed our quiet exchange.
Alex looks up, a piece of egg hanging off his fork. "What?"
"You've not said three words all morning," Darren says. "Anyone would think you've gone mute."
"I was listening," Alex replies, in that tone that teenage boys reserve for family dinners and all forms of adult input. "And I do talk. Just not to you."
"Oh, charmin'," Darren says with a mock frown. "Raising a right little poet, Linda."
"Don't look at me," Mum says, sipping her tea.
I can't help but laugh again. It's such a normal morning. No tension, no dread, just toast and banter and the soft knock of Darren's mug on the table as he sets it down.
The quiet stretches again, and my phone buzzes once more.
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Iz: Just think about it.
Iz: I promise it'll be fun.
Iz: You need this.
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I smile faintly. I start to type a reply but pause.
I look up at my family, at the sunlight on the roller blind, at Mum cutting up her egg, at Darren now picking toast crumbs from his beard, at Alex drinking his black coffee.
I wish I could go back — just one more hour. One more cup of tea at Grandma's old table. One more sarcastic jab from Darren. One more sweet look from Mum. One more eye roll from Alex.
Just. One. More.
But it doesn't last long enough.
Something shifts.
A sound.
Muffled at first.
A door. Closing, slow and deliberate.
I feel the warmth seeping rapidly away from the room. The kitchen flickers — a blink, like the world's changing frames. The colour drains, and suddenly the golden sunlight feels very artificial. The edges of the table start to blur.
The clatter of cutlery is gone. My ears are ringing.
I turn my head. Alex's face blurs, then Darren's, then Mum's. Their voices muffle and crack, like static in real time.
The scent of eggs and toast has been replaced by sterile air and the faint tang of antiseptic.
I'm suddenly freezing.
And then I hear it again — the door, and this time it sounds real.
I try to move, but my limbs are slow to respond. My head is heavy. The fog of the dream lingers, thick and cruel.
The light above buzzes softly, dim and clinical.
My eyes flicker toward the sound.
Dylan walks in.
And just like that, Saturday morning is over.
It's all over...