Confession at First Light

“Sometimes the only way to keep a secret is to tell just enough of it.” — Violet Dallow

As the first tentative rays of dawn pressed through the thin curtains, Violet sat on the edge of her bed, her mind still tangled in the remnants of the night. The pale light washed her walls in a muted grey, softening the posters and familiar clutter, but it did nothing to soften the weight pressing down on her chest.

She had made her decision in the restless hours before morning. She couldn’t keep all of this locked inside, not after the nightmare’s grip, not after Mandy’s revelation. But neither could she pour the full horror onto Jasmine’s small shoulders. Her sister was a young teenager—sharp, perceptive, far too aware for her age—but still a child in so many ways. Violet’s task was clear: she would share just enough, carefully chosen, stripped of its sharpest edges. A confession muted into something survivable.

The muffled buzz of Jasmine’s alarm clock broke the fragile stillness from across the hall. Violet was already dressed, her hair pulled back, her trainers scuffed from pacing. She rose, smoothed her palms against her jeans, and crossed the corridor with deliberate quiet.

Her knuckles tapped softly against the door. “Jaz? You awake?”

There was a groggy murmur, then the creak of bedsprings. Violet pushed the door open to find her sister sitting up, shoulders hunched, rubbing at her eyes with the back of one hand. The morning light caught the tangle of her hair, haloing her in gold that made her look even younger, caught between dream and day.

Jasmine blinked blearily at her, half a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Vi? You’re up early. You look awful. What’s wrong?”

Violet’s throat tightened at the simple question, at the unguarded trust in those sleepy eyes. She moved further into the room, the carpet cool beneath her bare feet, the air thick with the faint scent of fabric softener clinging to the sheets and the chalky sweetness of Jasmine’s soap. For a heartbeat she hovered, torn between two impulses—the instinct to shield her little sister from the darkness clawing at her, and the desperate need to spill her burden into the lap of the only person who might truly listen.

She forced a weak smile and perched on the edge of the bed. The springs dipped under her weight, pulling her closer to Jasmine. “I had a… a strange dream last night,” she said softly, tasting each word before releasing it. “I thought maybe talking about it might help.”

Jasmine straightened at once, the last remnants of sleep swept from her face. She knew Violet too well—knew when the restless tilt of her shoulders, the tightness in her voice, meant something had unsettled her. “Of course,” she murmured, patting the quilt beside her with one hand. “Tell me everything.”

Violet inhaled deeply, steadying herself. Then the words spilled out. She told Jasmine of the endless red expanse of the Outback, the sun suspended in a pitiless sky, the land cracking beneath her feet as though it wanted to consume her whole. She spoke of the loneliness that wrapped itself around her, of the certainty of being lost and watched. Her voice wavered as she described the sensation of running, always running, the dry taste of dust and the cry of unseen birds above.

But she left out the worst. She did not speak of the hand on her shoulder, of the paralysing dread that had turned her body to stone, nor of the gaol looming like a trap against the horizon. Those details she swallowed, keeping them locked tight in her chest. Jasmine didn’t need them—not yet.

Her sister listened in silence, wide-eyed, her expression a tangle of concern and fascination. She didn’t interrupt, didn’t shift or fidget. She simply absorbed every word, as though the dream itself might rearrange into meaning if she held it long enough.

When Violet’s voice finally trailed away, the room was thick with quiet. Jasmine blinked slowly, the weight of the story settling on her slight frame.

“That sounds really scary,” Jasmine said at last, her voice hushed, as though speaking too loudly might summon the dream back into the room. She reached out, her small hand finding Violet’s, fingers cool against her clammy skin. “Do you think… do you think it means something? Like, about Sally Harlow, and everything that’s been happening?”

The question hung between them, fragile but sharp.

Violet hesitated, her throat tightening. Part of her wanted to laugh it off, to brush Jasmine’s worry aside with some easy reassurance. But the images of the desert, the gaol, the feeling of being hunted clung too closely. She couldn’t bring herself to lie—not completely.

“I don’t know,” she admitted at last, the words landing heavy. “Maybe. But it was just a dream, Jaz. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Jasmine nodded slowly, though her brow furrowed, the worry refusing to leave her face. “Just… just be careful, okay?” Her voice was small, almost childlike, but the weight in it was far older. “I don’t want anything to happen to you, Vi.”

Violet’s chest constricted with a rush of affection and guilt. Her sister’s trust was like a warm thread binding her, yet it hurt too, knowing how much worry she carried into this room. She leaned forward and wrapped Jasmine in a fierce hug, holding on tightly, almost desperately.

“I promise I’ll be careful,” Violet murmured into her sister’s hair, catching the faint scent of her shampoo, sweet and clean. “Don’t worry about me, Jaz. I can handle myself.”

But even as she said it, she knew the words weren’t quite true.

As they parted, Violet forced a gentle smile, layering her voice with soft reassurances she didn’t believe. She smoothed Jasmine’s hair, gave her hand a final squeeze, and let the pretence stand. Inside, though, the dread still gnawed at her like something alive.

Yet speaking the dream aloud, even in its softened version, had loosened its grip. The very act of sharing—of admitting it rather than swallowing it whole—felt like a small defiance, a way of robbing the nightmare of some of its claws.

But the images refused to fade.

They shadowed her through the motions of the morning, ghosting the edges of each ordinary act. The hiss of the shower became the rush of desert wind. The scrape of cutlery at breakfast clattered like footsteps on gravel. Even the walk through the neighbourhood streets—sunlight spilling pale and clear across fences, the air carrying the faint tang of dust and petrol—seemed threaded with menace. She couldn’t shake the sense that she was still being pursued, that the dream had only shifted skins.

The gaol pressed at her thoughts, transformed. Once a place tied to school trips, to sketches and chatter in the cool of its rooms, it now loomed in her imagination like a warning. It had become a nexus, a landmark branded with Sally Harlow’s silence and the promise of Violet’s own danger.

Every sound around her set her nerves jangling. A car backfired in the distance, and her heart kicked hard. A man at the corner shop turned his head too quickly, and she flinched. Even the rustle of wind through the gum leaves overhead seemed to whisper with hidden intent.

And yet, beneath the fear, something else was taking shape. The nightmare had not broken her. If anything, it had poured her unease into something sharper. Her fear hardened, pressed into resolve, each edge honed to purpose. The town’s secrets pressed down on her, but she would not fold beneath them.

Violet breathed the words under her breath, almost too soft to hear.

“I won’t let them win. Whatever’s going on in this town, whatever happened to Sally… I’ll find out the truth. No matter what it takes.”