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And who else could I live with anyway? My one remaining grandmother was in a home, suffering from Alzheimer’s. Neither of my parents had any surviving siblings. I was unusual among my classmates because I had no cousins. I wasn’t even related to Dylan—he was my grandfather’s adopted stepson from a later marriage or something. I’d always envied large families, now more than ever.

We are—were, damn it, Emily! were!—a small, self-contained family. My parents had broken with family tradition by having more than one child, and now Billy was cold and lifeless, buried deep in the chalky ground with them.

The thought of my little brother—my beautiful, curly-haired baby brother—was a punch to the gut. Gasping, I clutched my stomach with both hands to contain the pain and horror. I needed to see him. I missed him. I missed him so much.

Billy!

I threw my bag on the bed, rummaged through it, and found my phone.

Damn. It was dead as a doornail.

I delved back into my bag and yanked out the framed family photograph I’d liberated from home, my real home. I set it down on the bedside table, seeing my parents smiling up at me. My mother hugged Billy, who had his shimmering blond head thrown back in a howling laugh. I was standing beside them, laughing at Billy, with my father’s arm draped over my shoulder in a loose, relaxed embrace.

We are… were… a normal, happy family. Did I even know that? Did I appreciate that?

My finger traced their three outlines as I devoured their images. I didn’t want to forget what they looked like or what they sounded like.

I should be with them.

These three people had anchored me to a normal, happy life, and I never realized it. And now that they were gone, I was completely at sea—an empty vessel in an ocean of grief. Their loss had left a huge, indelible hole in my chest that was torn and ragged at the edges.

The white noise intensified, and I knew I couldn’t sit still. If I did, I would crack open and break. I couldn’t face unpacking, but I knew I had to move. It was the only way to reduce the volume of the white noise that rang through my head. I had to get out of this cold, clinical room. Perhaps a less white bedroom would help me. I decided to explore the rest of the house.

Wandering onto the landing, I glanced at the stairs leading to the next floor, but it looked too dark up there, so I headed across the landing and down the hall. I found the airing cupboard, stacked with white towels, then the bathroom—stylish, modern, and all white, naturally.

Did Dylan have any color in his life?

The first bedroom I entered was small and empty, with bare floorboards and walls covered in old cream paint; the only view was of the brick wall of the house next door. The second room was similar but smaller and offered nothing remarkable.

At the end of the hallway, I opened the remaining door and cautiously peered inside. I was instantly drawn to the three enormous sash windows—the most striking feature of the room—that looked out over the back garden. They filled the far wall, and in spite of being filthy, they flooded the space with dusty light from the late-afternoon sun. The floorboards were bare, the walls wore a shabby coat of primrose-yellow paint, and to my left, in the middle of the wall, there was a black iron fireplace covered in painted tiles. It was lovely. Small pink roses adorned the tiles. They needed a clean, but they were a splash of color in this over-white house.

Instantly, I felt comfortable and, for the first time since the awfulness began, calmer. The white noise receded to a distant hum, and I noticed its absence. It was… peaceful. As I stood in the middle of the large room, savoring the serenity, I became aware of a faint, strange smell. Not unpleasant, but it was impossible to place; maybe earthy, maybe soap, but soap for a man. It lingered in an elusive manner, and I wandered around the room trying to locate the source, sniffing here and there and in the corners, but I found nothing.

How odd!

The windows were closed, so it wasn’t coming from outside. To try to identify it, I inhaled deeply—ignoring the protest from my bruised ribs—and filled my lungs. They hadn’t been fully filled since the accident, but now they expanded with ease and the feeling was almost pleasurable. But frustratingly, the source and identity of the fragrance remained a mystery.

What is it?

Beside the fireplace was an old built-in cupboard. Opening it, I expected to find the origin of the scent, but it was empty, just primrose-yellow shelves covered in dust. I stood, perplexed, and breathed deeply again, enjoying the mild aroma. Making a second circuit of the room, this time I brushed my fingertips over each wall and the three grimy windows, leaving a line in the dust. I drew in another deep breath. The fragrance was still faint, but it was wonderful.

And then, suddenly, it disappeared.

It was gone. Vanished. As if it never existed.

Did I imagine it?

Dylan pushed the door open.

“Here you are,” he said and ambled into the room and stopped. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing. Actually, I thought I smelled something strange, but it was very faint.”

Dylan raised his eyebrows in surprise. It was the longest sentence I’d uttered to him during the past few weeks. He lifted his nose and took an experimental sniff. “The room’s a little dusty, but I can’t detect anything unusual.”

“No. It’s gone now. It just disappeared. But it was nice. More than nice. Actually, it was… pleasant. I couldn’t find where it was coming from.”

Dylan failed to mask his astonishment—maybe at so many words tumbling out of my mouth?—before he shrugged. “I don’t smell anything. Your soup’s ready. Please come eat something.”