A Pocketful of Stars. Aisha Bushby

something else, Saff.

      But I can’t. It feels weird to be making small talk with a virtual stranger across the bed of my unconscious mother.

      ‘All right,’ Amanda sings, unfazed. ‘I’ll leave you to it!’ She pulls the curtains shut with finality, and I’m left alone with Mum again. The sudden silence is jarring.

      I try to hold Mum’s hand, but it’s cold, like a corpse’s, and I pull back. I try again. I wrap my fingers round hers, avoiding the tube protruding from her wrist that is keeping her body nourished. I want to warm her skin. I want her to feel my touch.

      I reach into my bag and pull out Mum’s hand cream. I put a little in my palms and rub them together. Then I rub it on her hands, one at a time. When I’m done I look up at Mum again. I imagine her brown eyes creasing up as she smiles, sparkling with life. I want to see them now. I want her to look at me. Even if it is one of her angry looks. Right now I’d take anything.

      Open your eyes, Mum. ‘Open your eyes.’ I say it aloud without meaning to and cover my mouth with my hand, the other still clinging to hers, my grip firm, desperate. ‘Please,’ I add quietly.

      She doesn’t of course, because Mum’s always been stubborn.

      I notice the perfume still lingering on her skin. It wafts towards me as the heater blasts it in my direction.

      I lean over to cover Mum with the flower-covered throw. The smell is overpowering now; I close my eyes and take it in. But my legs start to wobble, and I almost fall into the chair.

      When I next open my eyes I’m back in front of the house again.

      It’s night-time. The stars wave hello, like they’ve been expecting me.

      The door of the house is wide open, like it expects me too. I’m certain it’s the one from the photo. Does that mean I’m in Kuwait? As soon as I think it I know I’m right.

      I look to my left, where the great big iron gates stand, and to the right where an old set of swings sway in the warm breeze, and finally back at the house again.

      It stands there, like the ruined palace from Fairy Hunters, where you collect your quests. And this time I go inside.

      A tunnel of green greets me as I step through the door. Plants hang from the ceiling, their leaves skating down the walls and on to the purple-and-pink marbled floor. I sweep my hand along the wall, gathering leaves. As I pass through I think of Mum growing up here in this house. I think of her as a little child, holding on to her mother’s skirt like she did in that photo. I want to swoop her up in my arms and tell her everything is going to be OK. Because that’s what I need someone to tell me.

      Soon I find myself in a foyer with a round table in the middle of it. Windows line one entire side of the wall, their blinds, like the house’s eyelids, are pulled down, like it’s asleep. The pearlescent walls sparkle in the light, and an enormous canvas of the sky stands at the furthest end of the room. This is how I imagine the fairy palace would have looked before it turned to ruin. Red and gold furniture, rich colours and patterned curtains. It’s like stepping into a dream.

      As I walk across the room it’s as if I can feel the house breathe beneath my feet.

      Whish, whoosh. Pause. Whish, whoosh. Pause. Its steady heartbeat drumming through the floors.

      Another leaf-lined hallway leads to a different part of the house, and a staircase winds upwards just next to it.

      I’m about to try the other rooms, to explore more, when I see it.

      A bracelet.

      It’s the only thing on the glass-topped table, and it sparkles and glints at me.

      Like it wants me to pick it up. In Fairy Hunters you always know when to collect objects, because they glow just a little brighter than everything else. That’s what this reminds me of.

      I see something inscribed on the bracelet, but it’s in Arabic. Mum taught me it when I was younger, though we haven’t had lessons in a while. I understand Arabic much better than I can read it. Mum eventually gave up trying to teach me all the letters and how to join them together, but I think I can still read some of them.

      I pick the bracelet up and try to make out what it says. Slowly.

      I get as far as ‘am’ before I hear it.

      Laughter. Coming from the front door.

      Then I see it. Something shoots across the room, like a star.

      I realize it’s a young girl, followed by another.

      They pass by me so quickly I don’t see their faces – just a blur of long curly hair as they bolt up the stairs.

      I jump and drop the bracelet, my heart pounding.

      It clatters on the table, startling me.

      When I next look up I’m back at the hospital by Mum’s bedside. My glasses have fallen from my face and on to the floor while I was sleeping.

      As I put them on and look around the same thing happens as before.

      The heat.

      The sand.

      Except this time, instead of silver branches I see leaves everywhere, crawling up Mum’s bed, reaching for her.

      I rub my eyes and after that they’re gone. I wave my hand in front of my face like before and it blurs, making me feel dizzy.

      I wait until the feeling passes, and then I rush out of the room without saying goodbye.

      Another strange dream, I think.

      Those girls . . . The curly hair. It can’t be, can it?

      Then I wonder, almost hope, will it happen again?