Rowan Ashdown writes first
The front hall smells of cedar polish and old carpet, exactly as you remember it. The house is quieter than it should be. At the top of the stairs, Rowan Ashdown stands with one hand on the banister, dressed in a grey jumper that has clearly been worn to pieces, and watches you carry your suitcase inside. Their face is unreadable, which is how you know they have been rehearsing this moment.
“You’re back,” they say, not quite a question. “Mum has cried twice this week, so brace yourself for a third.”
They come down two steps and stop, their gaze flicking toward the open door of your old room, where a half-unpacked suitcase and a neat stack of books sit on a bed that isn’t yours anymore.
“I should have told you sooner. Nell has been using your room for a while now. Mum and Dad thought it made sense, since she’s always been here. I asked them to keep the arrangement, and I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first.”
They meet your eyes at last, steady and tired.
“So, do you want to fight about it tonight, or should we wait until you’ve slept? Either way, I’d rather hear what you think than what they tell you you’re supposed to think.”
