The tears stop not because the grief has ended, but because there is simply nothing left for me to give. My eyes burn, raw and swollen, but the endless, frantic listening finally dulls. I sink into a state of semi-sleep, a shallow, gray haze where the wind and the music blend into a single, sorrowful thrum. It’s not rest, not really—I’m simply waiting for the world to change.

  And it does.

  Sometime later—hours, I guess, the violent drumming on the glass abruptly stops. The shift is so sudden that it strikes like a physical thing, ripping me from that strange in between place that isn’t quite sleep, catapulting my mind into frantic action, though I don’t move a muscle. The furious howl of the wind outside doesn't vanish, but it does grow calmer, less chaotic—a continuous roar, like a distant ocean instead of thrashing, invisible monster. The aggressive percussion is replaced by a sound far more intimate, a steady, measured drip, drip, drip from the gutter outside my window. The rain has stopped.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, silently begging the universe to let me slip away, but it doesn’t. I simply lie there in the dark, eyes gravelly and swollen and aching with tiredness but sleep just doesn’t come.

  Mom. I always used to climb into her bed when I couldn’t sleep, when I was scared. Her duvet was heavy and smelled like cinnamon and clean laundry, and just hearing her humming was enough to push the shadows away. What shadows… monsters under the bed that didn’t exist—nothing that was scarier than anything I’d ever known. Now they’re gone and with them, everyone. There are no monsters left, just still shapes, just emptiness. Take me back. I’d crawl into Mom’s bed and she’d pull the blankets up to my chin. Safe. Sing to me until I fell asleep. But she’s not here anymore. There is no bed to climb into. There's just the cold, the rot, and the endless void where her song used to be.

  My mind is a useless, spinning wheel. I try to count the drips from the gutter, 1-2-3-4, but the long night drags on my thoughts and I lose count before I reach ten. I try to remember the last thing Mom ever said to me, the sound of her voice, the way she smiled but the words are silent on her lips and her face dissolves into a blurred, sleeping image of death and decay, of still shapes and the sickening touch rotting flesh crawling across my skin and all over me.

  I lie alone in my bed, alone with my fractured thoughts until the bruised yellow fingers of morning light poke through behind the curtains. I’m so tired. I don’t want to get up but I can’t stay here anymore, I have to find somewhere safe. Somewhere I don’t have to look at them, smell them. Somewhere far away from here.

  Squeak. The strange little sound pulls me back again.

  Buttermilk. She squeezes free of my arms and crawls from beneath the covers, jumping down from the bed, circling near my dresser. She wants to go out.

  But I lie still for a moment longer, trapped in the fog with no will to move. If I get up now the day starts and everything out there becomes real again.

  Squeak.

  I take the dive without thinking, scrambling out of the bed, desperate to move before the invasive thoughts drag me back into the stinking mist. Now my blood is pumping, my heart racing; my mind begins to move. It’s cold outside the window. When I push the pane, a gust of icy air whips past me, shoving the curtains aside, poking holes in my pajamas and chilling my skin. It smells clean and fresh, like rain, free of the stink but I know that obnoxious smell is waiting for me out there. I close the window tight, turn the latch to secure it and deftly look at my phone. It’s 7:22 and the forecast says rain…

  Buttermilk. She looks up at me, almost as if she’s hearing my thoughts, her yellow eyes pinned on me with the absolute, unyielding conviction of a cat who believes it is ten minutes past breakfast. Her tail flicks gently with an air of impatience but she doesn’t take her eyes off my face, she just watches me, silent. Her tiny, glowing form is so small and vulnerable but so intensely real. A shining white light in the overwhelming darkness that has overtaken the world. She is the only thing left of that world, the only thing holding on to order and normalcy, to me; the only thing that isn’t running wild.

  I have to get on now. The day is wasting, so I take a deep breath, hold it, count to three. It hangs in my chest, growing heavier and heavier until I finally let it out. Time to go. My fingers find the edges of the dresser and I throw my weight against it, shifting it away from the door with that scratching, clawing sound. The sharp scent of bleach strikes me instantly but the cloying smell of decay is there too, lingering in the background like a predator waiting to make its move.

  Buttermilk wanders out into the hall, assessing her surroundings with calm detachment and finally makes her way to the front door, waiting patiently for me to open it.

  "We go now, Butters," I whisper.

  I walk toward the front door, staring at the door handle.

  I turn the knob and pull the door inwards. As it folds away, I notice that the garden gate is still open. Buttermilk pads into the flowerbed to do her business and a little flutter of discomfort flushes through me. The sharp, cold wind cuts through my pajamas but I just hug myself, ignore it and step out onto the stoep. Buttermilk finds her spot and digs a little hole, pitch black soil sticking to her fur like coal dust. Finished, she covers up her spot, trots back to me, and finally I move. I walk quickly down the path to the garden gate and with a push that’s harder than I intend, slam it against the frame with a final, solid clunk that echoes in the silent street.

  The sound is immense, a violent explosion in the deep vacuum. I flinch, scanning the empty street in anticipation of some response—up toward the corner and back down toward the cul-de-sac. Nothing. Not a sound. Not a flicker of movement. The solid clunk is swallowed whole by a silence so profound, so absolute as to feel entirely impossible, even in this world.

  A cold finger of dread sends a tickle down my spine and I dart back inside the house, closing the door with intense delicacy that barely makes a click, locking it tight with a twist of the bolt. My fingers are still shaking against the metal when the silence is finally broken by a tiny, plaintive sound from the other side of the solid wood panel. Squeak?

  Oh no! Buttermilk!

  I cringe, feeling a sudden wave of guilt. With painful slowness, I release the bolt, my ears straining to hear any change in the external silence but there’s nothing out there. Nothing. I turn the knob with the same careful motion as before, and crack the door open just a little. A tiny white blur darts through the gap, stops abruptly to lick herself, her tail twitching with agitation and finally, without a glance in my direction, trots past like I’m not even there, immediately heading toward the kitchen with her dignity perfectly intact.

  I push the door shut again, release the breath I didn’t realise I was holding in and throw the bolt home with a decisive thunk. My heart is still thumping uncomfortably but I just take a deep breath and push the feeling down.

  I'm starving. Last night’s feast feels like some long forgotten memory. My stomach hurts like the time I skipped breakfast and sneaked out to walk to school with Michael, only worse. I was so hungry when I got home ‘coz I forgot my lunch. It’s a tight, awful ache that says EAT NOW. Mom said “it serves you right for making me worry,” but… I didn’t learn my lesson.

  Buttermilk is waiting on the kitchen table. She knows what’s up: time for breakfast.

  The bread in the fridge is mouldy, the milk is sour. The fridge is still humming after all this time but nearly everything has gone bad. I spy Mom's leftover curry and my nose wrinkles at the thought of trying it. The smell alone would probably make me sick. Not worth the risk. I turn to the pantry, yank open the door, searching for something better than just dry sugar but there’s so much stuff it’s kind of overwhelming. The shelves are packed with ingredients. Things I can’t really eat without cooking them. Pastas, tins of soup and fruit and vegetables and anything you can imagine, all lined up like soldiers on the shelves. My fingers wander across the faces of the tins, flip through the sachets of sauce, spin the bottles of this and that to see what’s in them and investigate the nooks and crannies of the cupboards, thinking of Mom again, how she’d make something awesome with any of this.

  The top shelf is packed with sugary cereal and all kinds of snacks that would have been irresistible a week ago but I don’t want them. My eye settles on a box of plain soda crackers and a brand new jar of crunchy peanut butter. Tim hated peanuts but Mom always bought it just for me. I tear open the cracker box and pry the lid off the jar. I use a long spoon to scoop a big, thick lump of peanut butter onto a cracker and stuff it greedily between my lips. It sticks to the roof of my mouth, but the salty, thick taste is exactly what I needed. I eat four crackers, feeling the energy spread, the empty knot growing smaller and smaller until it’s replaced with a satisfied warmth.

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  But I’m not done yet. There’s cheese in the fridge, it’s still good—I used it last night for my omelet. There’s fig jam too, Mom’s favorite. One little thought and the ache in my tummy is back again but it’s not the same ache as before, it’s emptier, heavier, it hurts. Every single thing I look at reminds me of her, even the stupid jam.

  Squeak? Buttermilk! I forgot about her again! Here I am eating and she’s got nothing! The guilt takes over for a moment and I scoop her up in my arms, fetching a tin of salmon from the pantry, carrying her to the kitchen table and putting her down. The tin doesn’t interest her at first but the moment I break the seal, she locks in, investigating the smell and impatiently pawing at my hand as I dump the contents into a bowl.

  Watching her eat is strangely soothing. She grabs big chunks, retreats a little way and devours them just out of my reach like she’s scared I’ll steal them. The sounds she makes are so funny I can’t help but smile and I kind of forget the feeling in my tummy. The heaviness isn’t so painful now but I’m still hungry so I spread a little fig jam on a cracker and grate some cheese on top. Then I stuff it in my mouth and slowly chew while I watch Butters eat her breakfast. Mom’s favourite jam is delicious and I eat until I’m full. All the while, watching Buttermilk munch away at her salmon like it’s the best thing in the world. Yuck.

  Now it’s time to get ready to go. Time to put some clothes on and get my bag ready. Dad always used to help me with my pack when we went camping or fishing but he’s not here now so I have to do it myself.

  But my first stop is the bathroom to brush my teeth. It’s been days. Mom would kill me. The taste of toothpaste is kinda gross but I feel like it’s even more important now. Now there's no one to fix my teeth. So I gently brush like the dentist said, floss and rinse with mouthwash. When I’m done, I splash water on my face and scrub the lingering sleep from my eyes—hollow, tired eyes that seem to look right through me, that seem to catch on things that aren’t there, stare without seeing. Am I even still me?

  My scruffy, knotted hair that I didn’t brush last night, that I haven’t brushed since Mom helped me last Tuesday morning… sticks up in tangled spikes and bows, clean from the bath but in utter disarray. I have to brush my hair on my own now. I have to do everything on my own. Spraying it with detangling spray is harder than I remember. Pulling the knots out hurts more, takes longer, looks less like the perfect job Mom always did as easily as breathing. It’ll do I suppose. There’s nothing else to do about it anyway. I have to stop being a kid, there’s no one else to rely on anymore, just me. I have to do it all myself.

  The girl in the mirror stares back at me coldly, get on with it then. Survive. I smooth my hair down with my hands one last time and turn to leave the bathroom, eyes dipping across the surface of the cabinet automatically, searching for something that’s not on my mind but instantly, it jumps out at me: Mom’s lilac perfume. The little bottle is mostly empty, maybe a quarter full at best but the ache that pulses through me is near unbearable. Take it. Take it with you. My hand doesn’t shake when I pick it up. I feel just a little bit stronger with this tiny thing in my hand, but my heart shakes, it trembles.

  With my little piece of Mom in hand, I head back to my room. My cupboards are full of fresh, clean clothes. Her hands have touched everything. Shifting through the piles, I drag out the best warm clothes I have: stockings, cargo pants, a vest and long sleeved t-shirt, underwear and socks and my soft woolen scarf. I throw in my pyjamas and grab all the extra socks I can fit in the bag, since I know my feet always get cold and now, I think of Dad again. I take his knife from the bag and slip it into my pocket before pulling on a jersey, a hoodie and last but definitely not least, my warm, rain jacket.

  My eyes drift over my room, searching for anything else that could be of use. It’s always tidy so there’s not much to see. But my skateboard, hanging on the wall above my bed, grabs my attention. I look at my hands, remember the raw, stinging pain when I fell on the roof at the school, see the red scrapes from the rough tar and rub the small bump on my head from yesterday. I’ve fallen loads of times, off my skateboard, off my bike but there was always someone to go to before. If I get hurt now, I’m on my own, I have to fix it myself. I turn to pull my helmet and pads from the top shelf of my cupboard. I feel stupid holding it all in my hands, like I’m playing soldier, like I’m playing a game but everything is real.

  What else? Spare clothes? I turn back to the cupboard and glimpse myself in the full length mirror that’s stuck to the inside of the door. Another stranger but a stranger I recognise; a kid getting ready to go fishing with her Dad. Don’t think about it. Just take what you need and go. It almost feels like he’s talking to me and I listen. I just take some extra clothes, extra warm stuff and tightly roll it like he taught me so it doesn’t take much space; pack it down in the pouches of my bag that line my back for extra padding.

  Melancholy. That’s a word I learned at school. Ms. Davies said it’s another word for sadness but I guess I didn’t really know what sadness was back then. I thought it was funny, like a cholyflower-watermelon, some kind of crazy vegetable but I think I know what it means now. It’s this. The aches, the emptiness, the knowing. It’s not the sharp, sudden pain of that single moment or the endless scream of alarms and dogs and shattering things, but the heavy, crushing feeling that settles in when the pieces stop moving and you realise that they can never be put back together. It’s the feeling that I’m never going to see this place again, like this is it, like all the best days are gone and now I’m just here. The feeling makes my legs weak, pulling me back to the warmth and safety of my blankets and I sit back on my bed. Stay here. Just one more day. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to. But there’s no other option. I can’t stay.

  My hiking shoes stare at me from the bottom of the cupboard. Dark brown with waterproof leather polish, they’re kinda perfect for the weather. I always hated wearing them ‘coz they’re so heavy but Dad said they protect my ankles and they're pretty comfy too. And warm. A little reluctantly, I pull them on but decide to take my trainers too, just in case, tying the laces to my bag and covering them up with a plastic bag to keep the rain off.

  With my boots securely tied I force myself up from the bed. I have to get organized. Food, clothes, tools. They are everything. The rest is memory, just extra weight. As much as I think it, the ache is still there but my mind has clicked into a cold, practical gear, pushing that ugly sadness into a tight, hard ball that I can ignore, for now.

  I retrieve my snacks from the old school bag and pile them into my backpack, throwing a few tins on top. Next, the bathroom cabinet. I sweep out the essentials: a small bottle of antiseptic, a roll of bandages, pain pills. I take the entire bottle of Mom’s spearmint mouthwash, my toothpaste; there are things I have to remember for myself now. I have to remember.

  One last time, I return to my room, checking my mental list as I scan the space. Nothing. Nothing else I can think of. Nothing of use.

  And then I see it.

  It’s propped against my bookshelf, hiding in the corner where I always leave it. My violin case. The hard black shell is a familiar, solid presence that held my entire joy. My favorite thing. Mom bought it for me three years ago, a dark cherry-wood beauty that smelled like rosin and old velvet. I played it every day.

  My fingers trace the outline of the case. It’s too big. Too fragile. I can't carry this, it doesn't help me survive. It’ll slow me down and I’ll have to leave it somewhere anyway, it’ll get broken. I tell myself all the practical, sensible things but the thought of leaving it is a hollow agony that peanut butter and crackers can’t fix. It's like leaving a piece of my own voice behind, and another piece of Mom.

  I kneel and flick open the silver clasps. The interior is a deep blue velvet. The wood gleams faintly in the bruised morning light. I lift the bow, tighten the horsehair, and gently pull the violin out. It feels weightless, perfect, resting against my shoulder.

  I don't think about what to play. My fingers find the strings on their own, guided by something insde, choosing the notes of the last piece Mom had me practice—a piece whose name I’ve forgotten, but the notes just come to me, slow and… melancholy.

  The first note is a shock, an explosion of sound in the absolute, crushing silence of the house. It resonates through the empty room, down the hallway, into the places where the still shapes lie. It’s a living sound, defiant in its intensity and hauntingly beautiful; more beautiful than I ever realised, and it cuts through the silence like a shining sword. It's the sound of life, of then, of centuries, of us. And it’s a last protest against the new, empty world of now.

  And, the tears well up again. Not the raw, frantic kind, but slow, thick, burning tears of farewell. Buttermilk sits solemnly beside me as the notes begin to shake and stutter. I falter, not because my technique is bad, but because my whole body is trembling with loss. The song is short. Four bars. It ends not with a flourish, but with a choked, final silence as I lower the bow. It’s over. The echo dies quickly, swallowed whole by the thick, merciless silence, leaving it heavier and so much more profound than it was before.

  With a deep, shuddering breath, I carefully wipe the rosin dust from the wood with my sleeve and lay the instrument gently back into its velvet bed. Releasing the tension on the bow, I return it to its place, close the case, lock the clasps, and push it far under my bed, beneath the dust ruffle, where it will be safe and forgotten, waiting for a day that I don’t believe will ever come.

  That’s it. No more stalling. It really is time to go now.

  I shrug the heavy backpack onto my shoulders, settling the rolled-up clothes against my spine and adjusting the straps until the weight feels right. Dad’s knife feels heavy and comforting in my trouser pocket. Mom’s gun is a hard, unyielding mass in the breast pocket of my jacket, solid and heavy against my ribs. Her crucifix hangs like a noose around my neck and her lilac perfume is safely nestled in the middle of a pair of socks, deep inside my bag. I think I’m ready to go.

  One last time, I check the laces of my hiking boots, making sure they’re double-knotted, and finally, a little awkwardly, I strap on my skate pads, plastic armoured hand guards and my helmet.

  Buttermilk is already trotting ahead of me as I leave my room for the last time. She’s impatient to leave and so am I. Not really… but it’s time to go.

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