Shirley Golden, 10 Aug '12

I think of his text message: Please reply. Forgive me the past. I can explain all, Seth. At first I thought it was a sick joke. He'd been missing for nearly seven years. I'd stopped searching a lifetime ago, stopped seeing his image in every mirror and window. But his message repeated, every day for the past month, same words, same time.

I hadn't told Matt. This was my demon to destroy.

Ahead, I can see the meeting point. An empty carriage pitches to one side; its wheels have dislodged off a track and it teeters on a corroded rail. A tangle of bramble has broken through a bed of nettles and curls a relentless path through slits in the undercarriage; it reappears only once it reaches the fractured glass above. The splash of red along the side must once have proclaimed in dripping font, 'Hello there!' But the doors are ripped from their hinges and all that remains is 'Hel here!' The greeting is finished with a cross that once served as a kiss.

I catch my reflection in a broken pane: crimson hair, tamed by a black band, wide, skittish eyes, skin too pale against the night. I shudder and shine the torch onto my watch. He's late, but then again, he always was.

Finally, I detect movement. A figure steps into my plug of light. I grip the handle of the torch, angry my hand isn't steady. His hair is matted and lifeless, his face gaunt and whiter than my own. There is something else not right, something I can't pinpoint. His eyes shift, like one accustomed to being hunted.

'Gwen?' he says and takes a hesitant step forward.

I lower the torch. I'm struggling to find my voice. No one has called me Gwen since he vanished.