Chapter One
Author’s Note:
I began this story when I was sixteen.
Like many things started at that age, it was written with more instinct than structure—raw, emotional, unfinished. Life pulled me elsewhere, as it does. But some stories don’t let go. Years later, I felt the quiet insistence to return, to finish what I had once started, and to see it through with the perspective I didn’t yet have back then. To give it purposeful, direction, and theme.
This is written to read like a real book—measured pacing and room for the story to unfold. Act I is a slow burn by design, with the narrative gaining momentum in Chapter 11 as Act II begins. It isn’t built for quick hooks, but for a story that takes its time before it reveals its teeth.
What you’re reading here is a rough draft. I’m sharing it without heavy editing or polishing because, right now, I’m more interested in connection than perfection. I want to gauge interest. I want honest feedback. And I want to know if this story could find its people.
Any words—comments, reactions, thoughts—mean more than you know.
This book is for my grunge girlies who have struggled with purpose.
For those who need to lose themselves before finding themselves again.
For anyone who senses that this world and the next sit closer together than we’re taught to believe.
For those who ponder duality, wrestle with shadow and light, and struggle—sometimes quietly—with self-love.
If that’s you, this story is for you.
A quick transparency note: I do use AI tools for editing and refinement, but all writing, story, characters, and ideas are entirely my own.
Thank you for being here. Thank you for reading.
Let’s see where this goes. 💫
With all my love,
AnonDanu
Prologue
It’s been just over eleven months since my father, Nicolas Goulston, died. He was a Warrant Officer, Second Class, in the U.S. military. He was stationed in Afghanistan. An explosion struck his convoy. That’s how they phrased it.
The day we got the news, the day my mum opened the door, it was a Sunday. Just after we’d come home from church. The house still smelled faintly of candle wax and roast chicken from the night before. Mum was humming to herself, kicking off her shoes, when the doorbell rang.
Two men stood outside. Both in uniform. Both with faces that said everything before a single word left their mouths.
“Mrs. Goulston?” one of them asked quietly.
From behind her, all I could see was my mother nodding. My chest tightened. Something cold settled in my stomach. They spoke, low, careful voices. I couldn’t hear the words. But I knew. Then the world faded.
Mum made a sound I’ve never heard her make before and hope never to hear again, something between a gasp and a scream. She staggered backward. One of the officers reached out to steady her, but she waved him away, her hand trembling. She closed the door behind them and leaned against it, her breath coming in short, violent bursts. Then her legs gave out, and she slid to the floor. One of the men knelt, trying again to help her.
I froze, only for a second. My little brother, Ryan, was sprawled on the carpet watching cartoons. The moment he heard Mum, he sat up and looked to me. He understood something was wrong. He was so very frightened.
“Go to your room,” I told him softly, yet I know fear covered my face. He hesitated still looking up at me confused and scared, then did as I asked, slowly, silently, the way kids do when they know something terrible is happening.
I crossed the room, barely acknowledging the men in uniform, and dropped to my knees beside her.
“Mum,” I asked, though I already knew. “What’s wrong?”
Her hair, light brown, lush, and glossy, had fallen into her face. Mascara already streaked darkly down her cheeks. Her skin looked pale, almost translucent. All the blood drained from her face. When she finally lifted her eyes to mine, something in them was gone.
“Your father—your father’s gone,” she whispered. She said it like a grim confession.
That moment replays in my head almost every day since. Grief is a strange thing, so revealing of life, and yet so cruel it feels impossible that it exists at all. That was the day I lost both of them. My mum died that day too.
She stopped calling her friends. Stopped taking us to church. There were no more dinners, no music playing in the house, no laughter. And eventually, she decided she couldn’t live in New York City anymore. We’re moving to London, England. To live with her sister and her family. She needs help, I see that. I’ve heard my Aunt Martha on speakerphone, begging her to come, telling her she doesn’t have to do this alone, that she can help with us.
Last night, we had our so-called farewell dinner. Mum’s friends. Dad’s side of the family. I don’t know why we bothered. No one said much, not really—just small talk and polite lies. We’ll stay in touch. We’ll call. We’ll Skype. We won’t. Shes shut everyone out, except her sister.
We used to be so close with my Dads side. Not anymore. Mum pushed everyone away. She rarely leaves her room now, ordering in dinner night after night, until I started cooking and doing the grocery shopping myself.
Now I’m sitting on a direct flight to London, watching the Atlantic pass beneath us, headed toward a new life I never asked for.
Knightsbridge. That’s the neighbourhood. A few streets from Harrods. Right by Hyde Park. Posh. Too posh. I’ve been to this house every year or so since I was two. It used to feel like a holiday. Now it feels like exile. I love New York. I don’t want to leave.
Six people in a four-bedroom house—with a single den? Call me spoiled, but that’s just too small for this family. Especially when we’re leaving behind our colonial home in Bronxville. A home with so many years of hard work, done by my father. His blood, sweat, and tears… Also his heart.
I don’t understand why Mum couldn’t have bought a flat after selling the house. Or why she had to sell it at all. We could’ve kept it as a vacation home. That house held the last pieces of Dad. Selling it felt like losing him all over again.
I saw it coming. The renovations. The new paint colours. The walls patched up where art and pictures once hung. The things she’d been waiting for Dad to come home to do were suddenly urgent, handled in a matter of weeks. She called it time for something new. She lied. She wanted change? Well, she got it. I couldn’t blame her though. I still can’t. She lost the live of her life.
I pause the movie on the seatback screen, too anxious to focus, and reach for my phone wedged into the seat pocket.
8:00 a.m. New York time. Twenty minutes to go.
Chapter One
There’s something deeply unsettling about feeling your life rearrange itself while you sit in the back of a moving car. We’re pulling up to the house in a taxi now. I still find these London cabs strange—seats facing each other, luggage stacked between us like a barricade. And of course, the whole driving-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-road thing. I guess I’m used to it by now, having been here over a dozen times before. It’s not exactly new.
The car slows in front of a long row of identical white townhouses, all pressed together like perfectly aligned soldiers. Our new house—my aunt and uncle’s—is somewhere in the middle. I stare at it, trying to imagine it as home. Strangely, that part feels easier than I expected. Wow. Did I actually just think that?
The shiny black door with its silver lion knocker swings open. I push open the taxi door and step into the crisp air. My aunt Martha peeks out first, then opens the door wider, her smile stretching ear to ear. Her teeth are so straight and white it’s almost surgical. Who am I kidding—it probably is.
She’s beautiful. Bright blue eyes, just like Grandpa’s, and full hair in layered shades of brown that look blended rather than dyed. Her daughter—my cousin Claire—looks just like here
Martha tugs her husband out behind her. Edward. Ed, to everyone. He’s… fine, I guess. Fit. Confident in that way men get when they never skip leg day. I’ve always thought Dad was better looking, but maybe I’m biased. Ed’s hair is chocolate brown threaded with grey, and he’s tall—six feet—but still somehow shorter than Martha once she’s in heels.
They hurry toward us, hugging Mum and Ryan, voices overlapping in cheerful chaos. I wave, then hang back to help the driver unload our mountain of luggage.
“Thanks very much,” I say.
“No problem, miss. It’s my job.” His accent makes him sound kinder than necessary.
I smile, and he nods before climbing back into the cab. As Mum pays him, Martha and Ed scoop up bags and head inside. Ryan and I are left with the rest.
That’s when it hits me. Hard. This isn’t a visit. I’m not here for two weeks. I’m here for years.
I love London—but it isn’t my home. How could it ever be? What would Dad think if he saw this? He loved New York. Loved it like a second skin.
“Come on, shithead,” I mutter, grabbing a suitcase handle. “We better hurry or we’ll miss tea time.” I chuckle, rolling my eyes.
“Jenna, would you just shut up?” Ryan snaps, dropping his bag. His face twists with irritation I’ve never seen aimed at me before.
“What?” I shoot back, more hurt by the look than the words.
“I’m sick of your sarcasm. I’m just as upset as you are. You’re being selfish—you and Mum!” That stops me cold.
Ryan’s always been annoying. Loud. Messy. But never cruel.
“So what if I’m sarcastic?” I fire back. “That’s how I deal with things. How dare you call that selfish? I’m just being me.”
“Exactly.” He rolls his eyes and grabs another bag.
“Hold up,” I say, catching his arm. “Exactly what?”
“Never mind.”
“Oh no, you don’t. Spill it. What’s the matter?”
He drops the bag. His shoulders tense.
“You and Mum—that’s the matter,” he says. “Dad’s gone. He’s not coming back this time. But why do you and Mum have to be gone too?” His voice cracks. Then, he’s crying.
Oh God. What have I done?
“Ryan,” I say softly. “I’m sorry. It’s just… the way I deal with things now. But I’ll try to stop. I promise. Please don’t cry—I don’t want to make you cry.”
He doesn’t answer. Just stands there, head bowed, shoulders shaking.
I remember the nights after the funeral. He’d sneak into my room when he heard me sobbing. Crawl into my bed already crying, and then it would all spill out—cries that went on for hours until he finally fell asleep beside me.
Dad and Ryan were inseparable when Dad was home. Same person, really. Just one smaller.
I pull him into a hug. His face presses against my chest, and I don’t care. We stay there, holding on like the world might collapse if we let go.
When he finally calms down, I brush a tear from the corner of his mouth.
“So,” I say, forcing a smile, “what do you say we go out, maybe a movie? I promise—no sarcasm.”
He sniffs, then grins. “Movie.”
“Alright. It’s settled. Now come on, shithead. They’re probably wondering what’s taking us so long.”
We grab the suitcases and head up the path to the front door. My arms ache, but it’s nothing compared to the weight in my chest. I’ve never felt so horrible. So selfish.
He’s my little brother. I’m supposed to protect him. The irritation of the luggage wins that internal battle—for now.
~~~~~
We’ve barely reached the door when Robert appears. Total surprise.
He’s supposed to be at Oxford. I guess he drove all the way down just to see us. He’s studying something in the health sciences—four-year program, graduating next year. Good grades, great girlfriend, golden-boy energy.
And speaking of Jasmine… he’s planning to propose soon. I’m the only one who knows.
“Robert!” Ryan yells, lighting up for the first time in days.
“Hey, Ryan! Here—let me take that.” Rob grabs one of the suitcases, hauls it inside, then hugs my brother before turning to me.
“What are you doing here?” I grin, pulling him into a hug. We’ve always been close—closer than Claire and I, actually. He’s told me things no one else in the family knows. Like when Jasmine got pregnant last year. She had an abortion. He was devastated. Another thing no one else knows.
“And miss this?” he laughs. “Hell no. Besides, I had to clear out my bedroom.”
“What? Why?”
“I haven’t lived here for three years. Jasmine and I are moving in together after graduation. And you’ll want the room, won’t you?”
“You didn’t.”
He smirks. I throw my arms around him. “You’re amazing.”
“I know,” he says. “So—how was the flight?”
“Longest one yet.”
“Shitty.”
“Right?” I sigh. “So when are you headed back?”
“Tonight. After dinner. With me and Jasmine.”
“What? She’s here too?”
“Yep.”
I squeal—then freeze. “I promised Ryan I’d take him to the movies tonight. He’s been really upset.”
Rob’s smile softens. “It’s fine. I just thought it’d be nice. I won’t see you till Christmas… and I wanted to celebrate your birthday.”Then it hits me.
“What if you both come with us? To the movies?”
He blinks. “You think Ryan won’t mind Jasmine?”
“He’ll just be happy it’s not dinner with Grandma.” Rob laughs.
Grandma dotes on Ryan like he’s still five. She cuts his food, buys him endless socks, pinches his cheeks until they’re red. She once told him she doesn’t want him to feel “left out,” whatever that’s supposed to mean. Ryan never complains. He just stiffens a little, like he’s bracing himself for it.
My grandmother’s a medium. She talks to the dead. Mum had the gift too when she was young—but somewhere along the way, it slipped through her fingers when she was a late teen. She never talks about it. According to family legend, the gift passes from first-born daughter to first-born daughter. And guess what? That’s me. Supposedly, we’re all mediums… or necromancers, depending on who you ask. A lineage stretching back far beyond anything our family records can explain. But nothing has happened for me yet.
“Alright,” Rob says, interrupting my thoughts. “You’re probably wrecked—jet lag and all. Should we go now?”
He’s not wrong. My body feels like it’s still hovering somewhere over the Atlantic. All I really want is a shower and a bed that doesn’t feel borrowed.
But after snapping at Ryan… after watching him cry like that… sleep feels like something I haven’t earned yet.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “Good idea. Might as well invite Claire too. I’ll grab Ryan.”
“Claire’s at rehearsal,” Rob reminds me.
“Oh. Right.” I’d forgotten. Claire’s my other cousin—Rob’s younger sister, my age. Beautiful, popular, completely obsessed with dance. Too tall for ballet now at five-nine, but she dominates in modern. And she’s genuinely, terrifyingly talented.
“Oh, okay. We’ll just see her tonight then,” I shrug. “Ryan! Get your stuff—we’re going now to the movies!” I call upstairs.
Ryan loves the movie theatre lately. A dark room. A screen. Two hours where no one expected him to talk about Dad, or behave.
Mum’s voice floats out from the sitting room off the foyer. “Jenna, where are you going? We’re having dinner with your grandparents this evening—we just got here.”
Rob steps in before I can answer. “I thought it might be alright if I took them out to meet Jasmine.”
“Robert, I wish you’d mentioned that earlier,” Aunt Martha calls from the sitting room, setting her teacup down.
“Sorry, Mum. I didn’t know dinner was planned. Aren’t you going over for supper in a couple of nights anyway?”
“Yes, but it’s their first night here,” Martha says. “Why can’t Jasmine join us?”
“We’ve got reservations,” Rob says quickly. “With a deposit. Can’t cancel. That’d be rude, wouldn’t it? You taught me that.” He flashes her a grin.
“Don’t pull that on me, Robert,” Martha sighs, giving him the look. She then looks to my mum for the final word. “Laura?”
Mum shrugs. “Oh, let them go. We’ll see them for Jenna’s birthday dinner instead. I’ll ring your parents and let them know we won’t be coming tonight.”
Martha hesitates, then relents. “Fine. Be home by nine.”
“What? Why? I’m sixteen,” I protest, too tired to hide the edge in my voice.
“Not until Sunday,” Mum says calmly, giving me a look that means drop it. “And your brother is ten.”
“Fine,” I mutter.
“Don’t worry,” Rob says quietly. “We’ll be back by nine. Promise.”
Right on cue, Ryan comes thundering down the stairs, cheeks flushed. “Ready!” he yells, pushing open the front door.
We say our goodbyes and step out into the evening air. My head still aches from jet lag, my limbs heavy, but Ryan’s already bouncing ahead of us, lighter than he’s been all day.
I tell myself this is the start of something new. But truthfully? It just feels like a never-ending ending
