It's a bright morning, the kind that makes the whole world feel gentle. The air is crisp, the sky a soft wash of pale blue, and the leaves along the pavement shift with the wind.
I'm returning from the shops when I see Mrs. Thornton outside her house, pruning the roses along her front garden. She had always been a kind woman, the sort who never let anyone pass her gate without a warm smile and a chat. She'd lived on the same street for decades, watching children grow into adults, watching people come and go. Today, she has the same neat curls and the same cardigan wrapped around her shoulders.
She spots me and straightens, giving me a warm smile.
"Well, if it isn't our Rosie." She dusts the soil from her hands and leans on the fence. "Haven't seen much of you lately. Your mother keeping you busy?"
I laugh lightly. "Something like that."
"She's a good woman, your mum. Always has been. Such a devoted mother."
I nod. I know this. Everyone knows this.
Mrs. Thornton studies me for a moment, her expression fond. "How's your sister doing?"
I pause.
There's a slight shift in the air, so small it's almost imperceptible. The street is still, save for the rustling leaves, but something inside me turns rigid.
I let out a small laugh. "Pardon?"
"Your little sister." She frowns slightly. "Oh, what was her name now?" She taps her fingers against the fence as if sifting through old memories. "It's on the tip of my tongue. Terrible, isn't it, how the mind plays tricks when you get to my age?"
I shake my head, smiling politely, but there's something tight in my chest. "I don't have a sister, Mrs. Thornton."
She lets out a small chuckle. "Oh, don't be daft."
My smile falters.
She sees it.
Her brows knit together, the lines on her forehead deepening. "You do," she says carefully, as if testing the weight of the words. "I remember her clear as anything. A few years younger than you. You used to play together in the front garden, always thick as thieves." She tilts her head. "What was her name?"
The tightness spreads from my chest to my throat.
"I think you must be confusing me with someone else," I say, my voice lighter than I feel. "It's just me and Mum. Always has been."
Mrs. Thornton's lips part slightly, her gaze clouding over with something unreadable.
For a long moment, she says nothing.
Then she lets out a little laugh, though it doesn't sound quite right. "Oh, well. Like I said, my memory's not what it used to be. You know what they say - too many years, too many faces."
I force a small chuckle. "Exactly."
But as I walk away, my heart is beating too fast.
-
Mum is in the kitchen when I get home, slicing apples with her back to me.
"I saw Mrs. Thornton just now," I say, setting the shopping down.
"Oh?"
"She mentioned something strange."
Mum hums absently, reaching for a bowl. "She's getting on a bit."
"She asked about my little sister."
"Did she?"
I lean against the counter. "She seemed certain I had one."
Mum clicks her tongue, shaking her head. "Poor thing. She's always been a little muddled, but it's getting worse. Just the other week she asked me if my father was still working at the post office." She lets out a small laugh. "As if he ever worked in a post office. He was a builder."
I let out a short breath, the tension in my shoulders loosening slightly. That makes sense. Mrs. Thornton is in her late seventies. She's probably confusing me with someone else - someone from years ago when she was younger and sharper.
I reach for one of the apple slices, popping it into my mouth. "Yeah. That's probably all it was."
Mum smiles, brushing her fingers against my cheek. "You do have quite a familiar face, sweetheart."
I smile back.
The tightness in my chest fades.