Skye didn’t understand the sentence.

  Not because the words were hard.

  But because they didn’t attach to anything.

  They hung there between them, unfinished, like when someone started explaining a rule and forgot how it ended.

  “You died, Skye.”

  She waited.

  Her mum didn’t move.

  Alice’s face didn’t change.

  Skye looked from one to the other, searching for the correction — the laugh, the sorry, wrong words, the part where adults fixed things they said wrong.

  Nothing happened.

  “No,” Skye said.

  The word came out neat. Controlled. The voice she used when teachers made mistakes.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Her heart knocked once. Then again. Not fast — just loud. Like it was trying to interrupt her thinking.

  She pressed two fingers into the middle of her chest. Hard. The way the nurse at school had shown her.

  Pressure first. Then air.

  “I was at school,” she said slowly, carefully lining the words up so they wouldn’t fall. “Today. It was Thursday. We had maths first. Then science. Ben sat next to me because he doesn’t like the windows.”

  Her breathing bumped.

  She ignored it.

  “Lexi chased me,” she continued. “She punched me. I fell. I hit my head. That happens. People get knocked out.”

  She looked up.

  “You wake up after.”

  No one answered.

  The silence pushed back.

  It felt thick. Like cotton stuffed into the room.

  Her breath caught halfway in.

  She tried again.

  It scraped instead of filling.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Her chest tightened — sharp, sudden — like a belt pulled too fast. Her thoughts scattered.

  This isn’t asthma.

  It feels like asthma.

  Where is my inhaler—

  “Mum,” Skye said. Her voice bent. “I— I can’t—”

  Her mum moved — badly.

  Too fast. Too close.

  She dropped down and grabbed Skye’s shoulders, hands shaking, not realising her grip was too tight.

  “I— I know,” Mum said, breath breaking. “You’re okay. You’re— you’re here—”

  Skye stiffened.

  Her breathing went worse.

  “No— no— stop—” She twisted, panic spiking hard and bright. “I need— I need my inhaler—”

  Her mum didn’t let go. She didn’t know how.

  Everything got louder.

  The room felt wrong — too bright, too many edges. Skye’s hands started flapping without permission, fingers snapping against each other, then against her sleeves. She rocked once. Then again.

  Her thoughts turned into noise.

  This isn’t right.

  This isn’t real.

  Fix it. Fix it. Fix—

  “Skye.”

  Alice’s voice cut through.

  Not loud. Not soft.

  Alice knelt down slowly, like she was approaching something that might bolt.

  “Look at me,” she said. Her voice wasn’t steady — but it was aimed. “Just look.”

  Skye’s eyes snapped to her.

  “You’re not wheezing,” Alice said, forcing the words through. “Your chest isn’t closing. It’s just fast. That happens when you’re scared.”

  “It feels wrong,” Skye gasped.

  “I know,” Alice said — and her voice cracked — then she swallowed and kept going. “Put your hand here.”

  She guided Skye’s fingers to her wrist.

  “Feel that?” Alice said. “That’s mine. It’s fast too.”

  Skye clutched it like an anchor.

  They counted.

  Skye lost the numbers. Started again. Hit the wrong beat. Rocked harder.

  Air slid in eventually — thin, uneven — but enough.

  The panic broke open into something else.

  Skye sobbed.

  Loud. Shuddering. Uncontrolled.

  She collapsed forward into her mum’s chest, fists tangled in her jumper, crying like something had been torn straight through her.

  “I don’t understand,” she cried. “I don’t— I don’t—”

  Mum made a sound that wasn’t a word and crushed Skye against her, shaking now, face buried in her hair.

  “I know,” Mum whispered desperately. “I know, baby. I know.”

  Skye pulled back just enough to see their faces.

  “If I died,” she said, voice small and broken, “why do I remember today?”

  No one answered.

  That hurt worse.

  “You’re lying,” Skye said. Not angry. Just lost. “Or you’re wrong.”

  “I wish,” Mum said, a thin, cracking laugh slipping out. “God, I wish.”

  Someone stood in the doorway.

  Dad.

  He looked like he’d stepped into the wrong room of his own life.

  Older. Smaller.

  He took one step forward and stopped.

  “This isn’t possible,” he said quietly. Not to them — to the world. “This doesn’t—”

  He looked at Skye properly then.

  “Say something,” he said hoarsely. “Something only you’d know.”

  Skye’s head buzzed.

  “You knock twice,” she whispered. “Because loud noises make me jump.”

  Dad folded.

  He dropped to one knee, breath catching hard, like something inside him had finally given way.

  “That’s enough,” he said. “That’s— that’s enough.”

  Skye’s heart started racing again — slower now, heavier.

  “If I died,” she asked, barely audible, “where was I?”

  Silence.

  Her throat closed.

  “Was I alone?”

  Mum pulled her close again, crying openly now, grief tearing through her.

  “No,” Mum said fiercely. “Never. You were loved. You were always loved.”

  Skye went still.

  Too still.

  Her body went quiet in a way that felt wrong — like it had done it without asking her.

  “I want to lie down,” she said. “My head feels loud.”

  “Yes,” Mum said immediately. “Yes. Of course.”

  Alice stood.

  “I’ll stay,” she said, even though her hands were shaking. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Skye looked at her.

  “Promise?”

  Alice swallowed.

  “I promise.”

  As they helped Skye toward the bed, the house stayed silent — holding its breath.

  And Skye walked between them, crying quietly now, because the world still looked like her world — the same carpet, the same doorframes, the same smell of washing powder — but the rules underneath it had changed.

  Not dead. Not alive.

  Something that didn’t fit.