The darkness pressed like wet wool. Then a single match flared. Mike’s face floated in the glow, but his eyes were black birthday candles still dripping wax. “Wish time,” he said, voice syrupy. The match lit five new candles on the cake (real ones this time). The flames spelled S-A-R-A-H in cursive fire. The children’s voices rose behind her, a hundred kids singing the birthday song in rounds that never ended. She felt tiny fingers braiding her hair, gentle, almost loving. One tug pulled a lock clean out. A child giggled, “We’re making party streamers.” Sarah swung blindly. Her fist connected with something soft and cold that deflated like a balloon. The singing stuttered. The darkness cracked open just enough to show the attic stairs. She dove for them.
