Sorianne could see the house before she reached it, sitting in its familiar corner of the coastline like it had always been waiting for her. It was not large, but it looked loved. The windows glowed warmly against the cold evening, and the garden out back was already starting to thin for winter. The sea wind never left this place fully, but the house held its ground anyway, solid and welcoming.

Her aunt and uncle had told her for years that it was her house too. They said it plainly, like it was a fact that didn’t need to be argued with. Sorianne still felt a quiet tug in her chest every time she thought about it. Not because she doubted them, but because gratitude can sometimes feel too big to hold properly.

She liked the small things about living with them, the things that made a home feel like a home.

Aunt Vee complained about teenagers glued to their phones, then sat on the sofa with a blanket and watched cooking shows on Netflix like it was her evening job. She would point at the screen and judge the contestant’s knife skills with full confidence, even though she usually chopped onions like she was trying to win a race.

Uncle Trunde had that heavy, steady dad energy, the kind that made the house feel safe without him having to say much. He fixed things quietly, read the same newspaper twice, and acted like he did not enjoy silly jokes while laughing every time. Sorianne did not know her own father. She never had. There were no stories, no photos, no awkward explanations. It had been just her and her mother in London for ten years, a small world that made sense until it didn’t.

She slowed as she reached the gate and looked past the roofline toward the horizon.

The sea was calm today, the waves rolling in with a soft patience. The sky held a pale winter sunset, and the light looked almost carefully placed, warm on the water, gentle on the edge of the clouds. For a few seconds, Sorianne forgot the cold. Her eyes widened as something clicked in her mind, a sudden pull of excitement that felt like a door opening.

Inspiration.

She dug her phone out of her pocket quickly, hands cold enough that the screen almost slipped. She raised it and took a photo, then another, adjusting the angle, stepping slightly to the side. She squinted and tried again. The colours were there, but not quite right. She took more, the way any teenager would, chasing the perfect version of what her eyes were seeing.

Finally, she got one that made her breathe out in a satisfied little laugh. She saved it, then took a few extra shots from different angles, just in case the feeling came back later and she needed proof of what she’d seen.

She did not want to lose this, so she hurried inside before the light could fade from her memory.

The corridor was narrow and familiar, with coats hanging by the door and shoes lined up in a way that made it obvious Uncle Trunde had tidied them earlier. The air inside was warmer, smelling faintly of herbs and something comforting from the kitchen.

“Auntie, Uncle, I’m home,” she called, shrugging out of her coat.

Aunt Vee and Uncle Trunde were at the table, their heads close together in the way adults did when they thought they were being subtle. They both shifted too quickly when they saw her, faces smoothing into innocent expressions.

Sorianne paused, amused. She could almost see the panic in Aunt Vee’s eyes.

“What are you two doing?” Sorianne asked, smiling.

“Nothing,” Aunt Vee said too fast.

Uncle Trunde let out a laugh that he tried to hide by clearing his throat. It didn’t work. He looked at his wife like he had already lost the battle.

Sorianne leaned against the wall, grinning. “You know I know, right?”

Aunt Vee’s mouth tightened, then she loudly sighed in comical frustration like someone admitting defeat. “Wha-Whe-how!?.”

Sorianne nodded calmly. “Auntie, you talk in your sleep. It silly, but so you.”

Uncle Trunde laughed again, louder this time. Aunt Vee shot him a look that could have sliced bread.

“I do not,” she said.

“You do,” Sorianne replied, gentle and certain.

Aunt Vee pressed a hand to her forehead. “Fine. Fine. You got us. Happy?”

Sorianne’s smile widened.

Aunt Vee pointed a finger at her like she was about to make a serious argument, then dropped it and gave up. “Alright, birthday girl. Since you already know, I’m asking you now. Chocolate cake, yes?”

Sorianne nodded. “Yes.”

Aunt Vee narrowed her eyes. “Good. Because if you ask for mint, I can’t protect you. People are coming tomorrow and some of them have taste buds.”

Sorianne laughed. “Matilda would leave.”

“Matilda would start a protest,” Aunt Vee said. “In my kitchen.”

Uncle Trunde leaned back in his chair, smiling quietly, the way he always did when the house felt full. “Chocolate it is.”

Sorianne’s excitement returned in a rush. She shifted her weight, already thinking about the photo on her phone and the colours she wanted to chase.

“I need to paint,” she said, already moving.

Aunt Vee noticed instantly. Her eyes followed Sorianne as she headed toward the stairs.

“Sori…,” Aunt Vee called, a little louder than before. “…wait a second.”

Sorianne paused halfway up and turned. “Yeah?”

Aunt Vee’s expression changed, just slightly. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t anger. It was something tired and careful, like she was holding a thought that had sharp edges.

“I need to talk to you,” Aunt Vee said. “About something.”

Sorianne blinked, then smiled softly. “Um sure Auntie, but is it okay if we make it quick? I got this inspiration vibe and I’m afraid I might lose it if I don’t paint.”

Aunt Vee hesitated, then nodded. “then after tomorrow then. Don’t let me held you up yeah?”

“Okay,” Sorianne said, and her voice was warm, trusting. “Tomorrow.”

Aunt Vee’s shoulders dropped a little, like she had been carrying tension without realising. Sorianne took the last few steps up, and her footsteps faded as she rushed to gather her easel and supplies. Within minutes, she was in the sunroom, the one Aunt Vee always insisted she use so paint wouldn’t end up on the carpet. Sorianne set the easel up quickly, pulled her hair back, and propped her phone beside her palette. Her fingers moved with purpose as she squeezed out colours, eyes bright, cheeks warmed by focus rather than heat.

Downstairs, the house settled again. The muffled sounds of Sorianne moving around upstairs made Vee’s mouth curve into a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She sat back at the table with Uncle Trunde. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Trunde was the first to break the silence. His voice stayed gentle, but there was weight under it.

“Is it wise?” he asked quietly. “To tell her tomorrow?”

Vee stared at the tabletop, then slowly folded her hands together.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

Trunde reached out and rested his hand over hers for a brief moment, then pulled back, giving her space.

Vee swallowed. “But I can’t keep putting it off. I tried.”

Uncle Trunde’s brow furrowed. “You wanted to wait.”

“I did,” Vee said. Her voice tightened slightly, but she kept it steady. “I wanted her to be older. I wanted her to have more… sense. More control. She’s sixteen, Trunde. She’s still a kid in so many ways.”

Trunde nodded, his expression patient.

Vee’s eyes flicked toward the ceiling, as if she could see through it, straight into the sunroom where Sorianne painted. Her voice softened.

“But it was Thea’s wish.”

The name sat between them like a memory that never fully left the room.

Vee’s gaze went distant, and for a moment her face looked younger, pulled back into a time she still hated thinking about.

A hospital room.

Thea lying in the bed, too pale, too still. Machines making soft sounds that felt cruel because they kept going even when hope didn’t. Vee remembered the way the light fell across the sheets. She remembered the smell of disinfectant and the way her throat burned from holding back tears.

Outside the room, Sorianne had been crying in a way children are when the world stops making sense. Trunde had been there too, holding her, murmuring anything he could think of. Other relatives, cousins and family members, waited in the corridor with tense faces and tired eyes, pretending they had something useful to do.

Inside, Thea had looked at her sister with a kind of clarity that made it worse; there was no panic nor fear, only gentle certainty. Vee could still hear her sister’s voice, quiet and firm, pushing through the weakness.

“Promise me.”

Vee blinked and the kitchen came back into focus. Trunde watched her carefully. He did not rush her. Vee breathed out, slow. “I told her I’d do it,” she said. “I told her I would.”

Trunde nodded, eyes warm. “And you will.”

Vee’s mouth trembled at the corner, then steadied. She looked up toward the ceiling again, listening for Sorianne’s footsteps, imagining her in the sunroom with paint on her fingers and that bright concentration on her face.

“She deserves to have her day first,” Vee said quietly. “She deserves to laugh tomorrow, eat cake, be annoyed by Matilda, and feel sixteen.”

Trunde smiled faintly. “Let her be Sorianne.”

Vee nodded once, a weary smile settling onto her face, real but tired. She nodded in agreement.

Upstairs, Sorianne leaned closer to the canvas, eyes narrowed, the phone photo glowing beside her palette. She mixed colours carefully, trying to catch the light she had seen on the water. Her hands moved fast, like she was afraid the feeling might vanish if she slowed down. Only as a girl with paintbrushes, a warm house behind her, and a horizon that looked like it had been made just for her to paint.