Every time I close my eyes, I hear a funeral bell. It was over a year ago. I thought I would be over it, even to the point of moving on, but I found myself thinking about it more and more lately.

It didn't help that the anniversary kept flashing across the flatscreen in my makeshift living room, a special feature on the news channel I normally watched. The correspondent's voice blared out of the back speaker, reciting the dull facts of what happened. Photographs and aerial footage of the accident's aftermath blurred across the screen.

I felt numb watching it all again, like an out of body experience.

One year ago, after it happened, I watched the news from my bed in the adjacent room. I already knew what occurred, but it was reassuring somehow that everyone else in the world did too.

My bedroom became my haven. I didn't leave for over a month, or longer. Time didn't exist there, even though I knew it was still pressing forward. I fell into bad habits, destructive routines—wake up, lay in bed, food would magically appear (or Eleanor was bringing it up to me), go to sleep, repeat. It was better than facing the reality.

Until one blistering autumn day, I finally left my bedroom for the dusty living area I was now sat in. Time moved forward again, and I found myself colder than the day it happened. Christmas was around the corner along with the winter frost. Nothing seemed real after the funeral, let alone then.

I blinked, the sirens on the television interrupting my thoughts.

On my coffee table in front of the plush settee I sprawled on, a steaming mug of coffee stood abandoned beside a mountain of tabloid magazines and newspapers—courtesy of my friends, Rena and Sky.

They hadn't visited this last week. Rena was busy with her photography business—it booms during the summer months. And Sky... Well, he knew better than to visit during the memorial services being held over the coming days.

The big question remained—would I be going to the memorial? In all honesty, I hadn't decided. The invitation lay unopened on my dresser in the bedroom. I feared opening it would make it all real again somehow.

One year.

No, to me he was still here. In the books I read, the music I listened to and wrote, and in the lines I recited from his poetry book on particularly hard days. Pretending he was still here made it easier than admitting he wasn't and never would be ever again. 

My eyes stung. With the back of my hand, I wiped away a couple of stray tears before they could fall as a gentle knock sounded at my 'apartment' door.

Eleanor's head of dark, messy curls tied up into a messy bun peeked through the crack. "Rough morning?" she asked by way of greeting.

I chuckled, snatching the remote from the armrest of the couch to switch off the news. "Always."

Her green eyes twinkled in response.

Eleanor wasn't my birth mother, but she acted like it. I spent more days living in her overly large manor home than any home my mother could provide for me, no matter how luxurious. I can't quite remember when she made the ensuite on the top floor mine, but it felt like it had been that way forever. Living with her was better than living with my mam. It helped she was a wonder with sage advice when I needed it and always there if I needed an extra hand or two. She was a saint, but I doubted she knew that.

"Anyhow, I have your favourite brewing downstairs. Pancakes and golden syrup," she sang, waving a spatula around in the air.

I raised an eyebrow. "Homemade?" I enquired.

She smiled. "Like usual. Come down with your coffee when you're ready," she said with the usual joviality the occasion didn't deserve. But that was Eleanor, my fairy godmother as I liked to nickname her, always making things sound more exciting than they were.

I forced myself to smile. "I'll be down in a moment."

She ducked out of the room again, the gentle patter of her feet down the stairs following her.

I inhaled deeply, closing my eyes and taking a moment to calm my nerves. I pictured a forest with a park bench between the trees. I was sitting there, allowing the spring breeze to flood my senses. I conjured him up to sit next to me, the wind ruffling his long waves of mousy brown hair.

"It was always nice here in the summer," he murmured.

I turned towards him, watching the way the golden rays of light lit up his face. He was exactly as I remembered him. Leaves rose and swirled between us, taking the image of his serenity with them.

I opened my eyes, and I was no longer calm. Instead, my vision flooded with salt-water—tears.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

If there was one thing you needed to know about Rena Lopez before meeting her, it was that she knew how to make an entrance.

While I sat at the kitchen counter in the middle of the room, sipping on my cooled mug of coffee, Eleanor flipped another batch of pancakes in the pan above the oven. She swayed from side to side to the 80s music she kept turning up on her old-fashioned radio that looked like it came out of the 50s.

I giggled, feeling like the schoolgirl she used to nurture years ago, sitting in the organised mess Eleanor considered her kitchen. Plates were stacked high on the benches around her, cups placed haphazardly in out-of-pocket places. Eleanor was many things, but I wouldn't put the word tidy in a list of them.

As soon as the pancakes hit the plate in front of me, Rena burst through the door, long black curls flying around her. Hyperventilating, she pivoted towards the radio and switched it off, a Kylie Minogue song being cut off in its prime.

Before Eleanor could open her mouth, an invitation in neat cursive was pressed under my nose.

"Surely, you've seen," Rena said by way of greeting, her brown skin glowing.

Eleanor threw the spatula into the pan. "Good morning to you too," she muttered under her breath. But a sudden and unexpected interruption from Rena couldn't keep her down. She was back to pouring the mixture into the frying pan in no time, humming under her breath.

Rena rolled her eyes. "So?" she prompted, turning her attention back to me.

I glanced down at the words I couldn't quite make out. Blowing a stray strand of hair out of my face, I took it from her to inspect it better. It read:

To our dearest friends and family,

It upsets us more and more that we must live without our beloved Jonathan. He was the brightest light in our lives and to live without his laughter hurts us beyond repair.

This coming week marks the anniversary of his untimely and unfortunate death. To all those who knew and were close to our son and brother, we invite you to a celebratory feast at our home at Wiltshire Manor in Amblewood to honour his memory. It will take place at 6pm sharp on the 14th July.

We hope to see many familiar faces join us.

Sincerely,

Mr & Mrs Thornton,

Marcus Thornton

I must have reread the words a hundred times over before it fully processed what was happening. An anniversary meal for the death of their son? Wow. How considerate.

Rena's brown eyes sparkled in the sunlight. "So," she drew out. "Are we going?"

I pushed the piece of paper away as if it might burn me if I held on for any longer. "Where did you get this?"

She shrugged. "It was posted through my mailbox a week or so ago. I thought you would have also..." she trailed off at seeing my face.

Something you must understand is that I don't have a mirror to tell you how I must have looked, but I can tell you that my face became numb and hot. Everything slackened, my blood boiling ever so slightly under the surface of my clammy skin.

No, I hadn't been invited. No, I hadn't received an invitation. No, I would not be going.

"After everything you did for them too," Eleanor said distantly, her gaze fixated on the pan.

Rena bristled. "Well, it's certainly awkward."

I glared off into space. "It's fine. I wouldn't have wanted to go anyway, even if I was invited," I muttered while pulling the pancake from the plate apart. I chewed it, trying to push down every negative emotion I'd been fighting for the last year. Unfortunately, Rena knew better. So did Eleanor.

"We should gatecrash," Eleanor declared, spinning on her heel with spatula in hand.

"What?" Rena and I blurted in unison.

I choked on a piece of pancake lodged in the back of my throat. Reaching for my coffee, I downed it until the lump was gone.

Backing away, Rena put her hands up. "This is a bad idea," she muttered under her breath. "I need a glass of wine. Or whiskey. Whichever one is stronger."

Eleanor shook her head, eyes piercing into me. "This might help you, Tess. You won't be going alone." She winked, the way she used to when I was seven after getting into some mischief—often ruining a brand new, expensive dress from my often-absent mother unless it was convenient for her to make an appearance.

I fidgeted with the skin beside my nails. "I don't know."

"I'll only go if you go," Rena said, placing a hand on my shoulder. "I also wouldn't mind seeing them eat up their sorry excuses for not being there for you."

I nodded slowly, my mind a mess of memories and possibilities until an almost silent, "Fine," fell from my lips. 

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