Bursting through the gate, she ran up the switchback stairs, grabbing the worn wooden railings. On the second floor, a door stood open. Lily stopped, heart thumping, and pushed at the frost-rimed wood. It creaked back on its hinges. Inside, a large flat spread out, echoing with cold. There was a bright kitchen off to the right. Lily could see a row of mugs hanging from hooks. One missing. Closer, a round table with three chairs, and space for one more. There were photographs on a sideboard. To the left, a beaten-up old sofa, covered in faded but once brightly knitted blankets of woollen squares, sat in front of an old grey television. Regan was sitting on the sofa, staring at the screen as if there were something playing on it. He was wearing clean clothes but was totally immobile, as if he too was frozen. Lily took a step forward. He started, but didn’t look back. Instead, he leant forward over his knees for a second. When he stood up and turned, his eyes were bright. Lily hurtled into the room, leaping over the sofa arm on to the seat and throwing herself into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms tight around his neck.
