'Mum, look at this old photo of you I found.'

  It's a harmless sentence-usually paired with curiosity and maybe the odd laugh. But today, there's something in Ava's voice that sends a jolt of unease through me.

  I wipe the suds from my hands, drying them quickly on a tea towel, and make my way cautiously into the living room where my eleven-year-old is lounging on the couch. Her feet tucked beneath her, phone clutched in her hand, and a spark of mischief dancing in those icy blue eyes, almost identical to my own.

  "But first," she says, her voice lilting with smug satisfaction, her eyes flicking back to the phone with exaggerated casualness. I can already feel the impending doom curling in my stomach. There's an urge to swipe the phone from her hand and deal with whatever chaos that erupts, but I stay put, planting my feet and schooling my expression into something neutral.

  I took a deep breath focussing on the faint scent of lavender and hairspray, that I swear creeps up from the salon downstairs. It's either that or I've been working so long that the scent is burned into my nostrils.

  The flat is small but homey, with bobbled carpets and mismatched cushions, that are currently squashed behind Ava's back. The paint on the skirting boards is chipped, and the kitchen tiles have probably not changed since way before we lived here, but there's a warmth to it-a quiet, cosy space built from love, second-hand furniture, and more late-night microwave meals than I'd ever admit aloud.

  Why is it so terrifying that your child finds out you weren't born an adult? I thought, brushing a rogue crumb off the armrest before sinking into the other end of the couch. I force a grin, trying to look unbothered.

  "I didn't know you were friends with Silas Gray." My brows rise. Relief hits me like a wave-this isn't about her father, thank God-but then the name clicks, and my breath catches.

  "Silas," I repeat slowly, pretending to search the depths of my memory. "Honey, I think most people in Riverford know Silas Gray. It's not exactly a big town."

  Ava, completely unconvinced, pats the seat beside her, and I shuffle into it, more out of habit than willingness. Before I can even settle in, she's talking again.

  "Yeah, but Mary's mum said you two were 'close friends'."

  I let out a sharp laugh-too quick, too defensive. "We had mutual friends, sure, but Silas and I spent most of the time arguing." I pause. "I completely forgot about him." A lie I want to believe in myself.

  "Oh, come on. It would be impossible to forget him, when videos of his gigs are all over social media."

  "I don't have social media," I point out quickly, giving her a playful wink as she rolls her eyes but can't quite hide the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You have the internet." She quips.

  "Anyway, this photo?" I prompt, replying to her previous comment with a side eye.

  Her grin is full of barely-contained triumph, as she holds the phone out to me, a privilege I don't get offered much.

  A blurry Polaroid fills the screen, but the memory comes back instantly-four teenagers huddled close on a beach at dusk, smiles too wide, eyes too tired, skin pink from sunburn-although you couldn't tell by how dark the image came out-and maybe too much salt air.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  There we were: Katie on one side, her curly hair tied up in a knot with a scarf that probably belonged to her mum; Archie in the middle with that same lopsided grin he'd always had. And then Silas. His arm draped lazily over my shoulder, a bottle of Lucozade in his other hand, his dark hair a mop of chaos like he'd just rolled out of bed and never looked in a mirror. Tall, lean, even back then. His grin was crooked and self-assured, like he knew how to set the world on fire and walk away without a burn.

  We must have wrangled some poor stranger into taking the photo, during one of our annual trips to Katie and Archie's parents' caravan. Every summer, four kids stuffed into bunk beds and squeezed out the window after dark, sneaking to that same beach, music playing loud as we burned our throats on illicit cigarettes, and pretended we were older than fourteen.

  "It doesn't look like you hated each other." Ava says, arching a brow.

  "Photos lie," I murmured, passing the phone back to her. "Besides, where did you even get this?" There was only one possibility.

  "Aunt Kate was going through old boxes," she shrugs, making her way through the living area and into the kitchen, opening the fridge like she owns it. "I didn't believe you guys knew Silas, so she sent proof."

  Of course she did. I make a mental note to call Kate later and demand a warning next time she wants to air out our teenage past.

  "What's with the sudden interest in Silas anyway?" I asked, throwing my words across the room. "I didn't realise you were a fan."

  "Everyone's talking about him. You're telling me you haven't heard?"

  I shake my head, but Ava's already halfway back to the couch, eyes gleaming with the thrill of revealing breaking news. "Have you been living under a rock?"

  Apparently, and when it comes to Silas gladly.

  "Watch this."

  She taps on the screen, and the video bursts to life. A packed bar, the crowd's drunken hollering almost deafening. Silas stands centre stage, his guitar hung low, fingers gliding over the strings with a kind of frantic poetry. His hair's still on the longer side, just brushing the tops of his cheekbones, wild and damp with sweat. His shirt clings to him, sleeves rolled as the muscles in his forearm jumped with the rhythm.

  He's lost in the music-no, consumed by it. There's nothing polished or poised about him. It's chaos tangled up in chords and crashing cymbals. Then, silence, before the band kicks off again, even louder this time.

  The crowd whistles and whoops. And then he snaps.

  A speaker flies off the stage. Another follows. He slams his guitar into the floor again and again, a blur of rage and noise. Then the mic goes too.

  Finally he jumps off the stage into the throng, people grabbing at him like he's not a person, just some sort of trophy. A girl whips his hat off on his way past, but he doesn't even flinch as he makes his exit.

  I stare, mouth slightly agape.

  "That was his last show," Ava says, "and apparently now the label dropped him."

  "I'd imagine so."

  She watches me carefully, maybe looking for a reaction I don't have the words for. To most people, he's a headline.

  But to me-he's Silas. The boy who used to throw sand in my hair. The boy who once sat next to me on a log and admitted he was scared of letting people see the real him. The one who never failed to get under my skin, with his annoying, self-assured persona.

  "Aunt Kate-heard from Uncle Archie-who heard from Silas who said he's coming back to Riverford," Ava says, curling back into the couch. "Something about lying low while his manager figures things out."

  I don't envy his manager's job, telling Silas what to do was like trying to blow out a wildfire.

  The weight of Ava's presence beside me grounds me. She's gone back to scrolling now, tapping at her screen like she hasn't just upended my entire evening.

  I reach for the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch, tug it around the both of us. The flat creaks slightly above the quiet hum of the fridge. Outside, the street lamp flickers on, casting a soft glow through the curtains. Below us, the shop is dark-my single-chair salon where I snip and dye and chat my way through the day- awaiting my return tomorrow morning.

  I try to push away the lingering thoughts that it should have been busier today. Usually I would be working on clients back to back, as they got ready for the weekend, but recently I've been coming home earlier and earlier.

  For now, it's enough. For now.

  Tomorrow, I'll speak to Kate. And maybe-just maybe-I'll think about what it means for Silas to be back in Riverford. But tonight, there's popcorn to be made, fluffy socks to be found, and the promise of a cheesy rom-com waiting to carry us away.

  Just the two of us.