Morning That Isn't Ours

“Sometimes the scariest mornings aren’t the dark ones—they’re the ones where everything looks normal, but isn’t.”

The heater had stopped working during the night.

I woke with my nose freezing and the blanket tangled round my knees like twisted rope, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes your teeth chatter before you're even properly awake. My breath rose in short, startled huffs, hanging in the air like ghosts unsure of their purpose—lingering a moment too long before vanishing, undecided. The air in the room carried the bite of a winter morning that had crept in through the cracks—gaps in the window frame, the loose skirting at the base of the door—turning the room into something less like shelter and more like a poorly disguised lie.

The silence was different from the night—not that blank, heavy quiet of forced sleep and held breath, but a cleaner kind of stillness. Crisp. Watching. The hush before the land fully remembers to wake up. It felt almost like the room was waiting with me—waiting for movement, for something to happen, for someone to speak and break the fragile crust of the morning.

My muscles complained as I tried to move, stiff from curling into myself for warmth, my knees aching and back sore from the shallow mattress that had slumped in the middle like a hammock pretending to be a bed. When I shifted, the springs whined beneath me—high, metallic, and needy, like they hadn’t been asked to hold weight in a long time.

Outside, something tapped against the tin roof. Not rain—that would have been steadier, softer. This was more erratic. Like the wind was having a quiet argument with the building, flicking bits of grit and leaf-litter at it in frustration. Or maybe it was the metal itself, shifting as the cold sunk deeper into it, a tired groan or snap here and there, the motel settling into itself like an old man tugging a blanket higher over his shoulders. The sound made me feel small and strange, like I was being spoken to in a language I wasn’t meant to understand.

And then I realised—Mack wasn’t in his bed.

A prickle ran along the back of my neck, not quite panic but its cousin, the one that turns your stomach over slowly like it’s checking something. His blanket was still rumpled, the shape of him left behind like a pressed flower, still warm at the centre. One corner had been kicked down to the floor, and the pillow was dented, soft and low where his head had been. A few dark hairs clung to the fabric, caught there like threads of thought that hadn’t finished forming.

I sat up, slow and careful, like the room might shift again if I moved too suddenly. My hands were clumsy with cold, fingers curled into fists as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Everything smelt stale and tired—old carpet, body heat soaked into the walls, a metallic tang like the inside of a tin lunchbox that’s been forgotten in a school bag too long. Human, but distant. Lived in, but only just.

I held my breath and listened for any sign of movement—footsteps, the rustle of clothing, even a cough—but there was nothing.

Just that strange tapping on the roof, and the sense that something—someone—was missing.

The floor was shockingly cold against my feet when I swung my legs out of bed, the threadbare carpet doing nothing to protect against the chill that had risen up through the concrete during the night. It hit hard, straight through my socks—those flimsy, thin-cotton ones with the worn-out heels Mum had always meant to replace but never quite got round to. The cold climbed my ankles like it had purpose, and my toes curled instinctively, trying to retreat into the meagre warmth left in the fabric. It didn’t help. It was the kind of cold that made you feel like you’d stepped into another version of the world, one where warmth was something you only remembered.

Ribbons was curled beside the dip where I’d been lying, her faded ear crumpled over itself like she was trying to block out something she couldn’t bear to hear. Her fur felt stiff and chilled when I picked her up, the familiar plush texture somehow reduced, as though the stuffing inside had shrunk overnight, pulling her inward. She felt less substantial in my arms, like a memory softened at the edges. But I held her close anyway, tucking her under my arm and drawing what comfort I could from the familiar shape, her stitched smile as patient and unbothered as always.

The curtain didn’t want to move. It was heavy with cold, stiff where condensation had crept into the fibres and frozen them into place. I had to ease it aside slowly, careful not to tear it, until a narrow strip of outside revealed itself between the folds. The window glass was smeared with breath-frost along the edges, delicate ice crystals forming into feathered veins that caught the dim light and fractured it into soft, colourless rainbows.

And that’s when I saw her.

Mum.

Out in the car park.

For a second I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. It wasn’t just the shock of seeing her outside so early—it was the way she looked. The way she was.

She paced near the car, those tight, repetitive loops that made it look like the ground was drawing her in, like gravity worked differently just where she stood. Her coat was buttoned all the way up, collar high against the wind that snaked around the buildings and lifted fine curls of dust into the air. She had her arms folded across her chest, not for warmth—it looked more like she was trying to keep something from spilling out of her, something barely contained beneath the surface.

The gravel crunched under her shoes with each step, that dry, scraping sound of stones being ground into the earth. Every so often she’d pause and lift her head, looking up into the vast, pale sky like she was waiting for something to appear—guidance, maybe, or some kind of omen only she could recognise. Then she’d start walking again, faster than before, as if she'd heard something she didn’t like.

But it wasn’t the pacing that held me there, frozen at the window, not really.

It was the cigarette.

Slim and white between her fingers, burning down with an elegant curl of smoke rising into the air. She held it like she’d done it a thousand times, hand low, wrist relaxed, the end tilted slightly away from her body. The way she brought it to her lips was practised, fluid. No hesitation. No curiosity. As though it was part of her, something old and automatic.

The sight of it turned my stomach in a slow, tight coil.

Mum didn’t smoke.

Not once, not in the whole of my remembering. Not at home, not in the car, not even on those long, silent evenings when she thought we weren’t watching. She’d told us she hated the smell—ages ago now, walking past a group of kids outside the shopping centre, the air thick with the sour tang of smoke. She’d wrinkled her nose, pulled me closer by the hand and muttered, “Disgusting habit.” I’d heard something in her tone back then—something harder than judgement. Like she knew it too well.

“People who smoke are always on their way out,” she’d said once. “They can’t stay still. Always planning their next escape.”

And now here she was. Standing in the early dawn, pacing in the cold, drawing on a cigarette like it was oxygen.

The smoke wrapped around her face as she turned, making strange shapes of her features, hiding and revealing her in quick succession, like the air itself wasn’t sure who she was. She flicked the ash with her thumb and stared out at the empty road beyond the car park. Her eyes weren’t focused on anything I could see—she was looking somewhere further off, somewhere I couldn’t follow.

I stepped back from the curtain, letting it fall shut behind me with a soft sigh, like the room itself was tired of looking. For a moment, I just stood there, arms tight around Ribbons, the cold gnawing through my thin pyjamas and cotton socks, chewing at my knees and elbows like an old dog with a bone it wouldn't let go of. The air in the room felt heavier now, like it had absorbed something from outside—smoke, maybe, or just the uneasy residue of seeing her like that.

I didn’t like it. Her out there, moving like someone else. Smoking like someone else. There was something fundamentally wrong in it, like seeing a photograph where the colours had bled into one another—sky green, grass blue, skin tones gone waxy and unnatural. A picture where you could almost recognise the people, but not quite. The outlines were right, but the soul had slipped sideways, smudged out in the developing tray.

From the bathroom came the hiss and shudder of water pipes forced into action, groaning like something waking against its will. The tap gave a wheezy protest, then the sound of water running—a thin, erratic stream echoing in the cramped, tiled space. Someone shifted inside. Mack.

I padded across the cold carpet, each step making me wince, and leaned into the doorway. Mack stood hunched over the basin, hoodie zipped all the way up, the hood itself drooping behind him like a deflated thought. His shoulders were rounded, pulled inward against the cold. His breath ghosted in front of him in soft clouds that evaporated too quickly, like they couldn’t stand to linger in the air of that little bathroom.

The water was coming out in a weak stream, rust-tinted at first. He adjusted the tap and it cleared slowly, reluctantly, like the pipes themselves were unwilling to give. The brown colour reminded me of Grandpa’s tea—oversteeped and astringent, the kind of tea made not for pleasure, but because it was all there was.

Mack didn’t look up when I appeared. His focus stayed fixed on the toothbrush in his hand. The bristles rasped over his teeth, over and over, like he thought maybe if he scrubbed hard enough, he could erase whatever was sitting behind his eyes.

“You’re up early,” I said, my voice rough and scratchy, like a record played too many times.

He spat into the sink, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, leaving a damp smear on the grey cotton, the same patch already worn thin at the cuff.

“She’s been out there since before sunrise,” he muttered, rinsing his toothbrush. “Didn’t even wait for us to wake up.”

He turned the tap off with a quick flick, the pipes giving one last wheeze of protest.

“Found her cigarette packet on the bedside table when I got up.”

It landed in me like a pebble dropped into water—small, but the ripples kept going. I didn’t know what to do with that image: the packet, right there in our shared space, as if it had always belonged. Another shift in the picture I’d kept in my head of her, the corners folding in on themselves.

I leaned against the doorframe, the wood cold against my spine. Ribbons pressed against my chest, her stuffing still chilled, her small weight offering the kind of comfort that had started to feel like a lie we’d both agreed to believe in. I felt the cold creeping up through the soles of my feet again, slower now, but just as inevitable.

“Why’s she smoking?” I asked, though part of me already knew the answer wouldn’t help.

Mack shrugged. It was a careful shrug, the kind that tried to pass itself off as nothing, but underneath it was a thin strand of something frayed—confusion, maybe. Or something closer to fear. He turned his head then, looked at me for the first time, and his eyes were dark, thoughtful, searching.

“Maybe she always did,” he said. “Just not where we could see.”

His words sat between us like a doorway we hadn’t noticed before. One that led into the parts of Mum we’d never been invited into—the unlit corridors, the locked drawers, the other versions of her that existed in parallel but out of reach. If she’d been hiding this, what else? What else had she managed to keep tucked away behind the curtain of everyday gestures, behind packed lunches and school runs and that old smile we hadn’t seen properly in weeks?

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. There was a growing sense inside me, slow and deep like rising groundwater, that everything we thought we understood about our family might’ve been built on shifting dirt. That the house of our childhood had always been slightly off-centre, leaning quietly in the wind, and we’d only just begun to notice the tilt.

Mack dried his hands on the hand towel, rubbing them absently against the threadbare fabric that looked like it had been bleached within an inch of its life. The towel sagged on its hook when he dropped it back, and he moved past me without a word, his movements clipped. Not hurried, not panicked—just necessary. He went straight to the food bag, crouched low by the bed, and began packing.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The silence between us was full of meaning now, every movement carrying a kind of mute resignation.

Then the door squealed open, and Mum stepped inside, dragging a current of cold air in with her. It curled around my ankles and crept up the back of my legs. The scent came with her too—sharp winter air and something else underneath. Not obvious, not overwhelming, but unmistakeable. Tobacco smoke. Thin and stale, clinging to the fibres of her coat, woven into her hair like a bad memory. My stomach tightened.

Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, too bright against her pale skin, and her movements were brisk, purposeful in a way that felt unnatural—like someone playing at being in control.

“We’re leaving early,” she said. No hello, no good morning. Just that. Her voice had an edge to it—hard, brittle. “I want to get ahead of the traffic.”

Mack froze, one hand still in the food bag. He didn’t lift his head right away, just let the words sit there for a moment, unchallenged. Then, slowly, he looked up. His face was blank, but I could see the tension in his jaw, the crease between his brows.

“There is no traffic,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes. He spoke to the air just to her side, as though looking directly at her might shatter something.

For a heartbeat, she didn’t move. Her shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, and I saw her mouth tighten. It was so fast that if I hadn’t been watching her closely, I might’ve missed it entirely. But I caught it. That flicker of something—surprise, maybe. Or guilt. Like a glitch in her programming.

Then she turned away, walked across to the kitchenette with fast, decisive steps, and flicked the kettle on with a sharp jab of her finger. It gave a low hum, but I wasn’t convinced it would do anything more than pretend to boil.

“There might be,” she said, her back to us now, rummaging in the cupboard that had offered nothing but mismatched mugs and a cracked plate the night before. “Trucks. Stock movement. Road trains carrying cattle. Whatever. The earlier we go, the better our chances of clear roads.”

Her voice had changed again—tight and pre-emptive. The kind of tone people use when they’ve already had the argument in their heads and aren’t open to hearing it again out loud. Her reasoning sounded like it had been rehearsed in the car park, while she paced and smoked and stared at the sky. Like she’d tried the lines out on the wind first.

But it didn’t match what we knew. Trucks had timetables. Stock movements didn’t detour through forgotten towns with rusted signs and broken roads. This wasn’t about traffic, not really.

Whatever road she was worried about wasn’t paved. And whatever she was trying to get ahead of—it wasn’t behind us.

Not yet.

I sat on the edge of the bed, knees pulled tightly up to my chest, the worn flannel of my pyjamas offering no real barrier against the creeping cold. I didn’t speak. Didn't dare. The room felt like it was strung with invisible wires, and I knew too well how easily a single wrong word could set them humming. The springs beneath me gave a soft, mournful creak as I shifted my weight, the sound absurdly loud in the charged quiet. Cold threaded its way into my body like smoke—through my socks, up my spine, into the hollow places between my ribs where warmth once lived. I hugged Ribbons against me like she could plug the gaps.

Mack, though—he wasn’t going to leave it alone. I could tell by the way his brow was drawing down, that flat set to his mouth that meant something was unravelling in him. I'd seen that look before, usually in the tense pauses before one of his quiet detonations—calling out Dad’s version of events when they didn’t quite line up, or confronting Mum when her promises started to dissolve under scrutiny. It wasn’t defiance, exactly. It was something harder to argue with: truth with nowhere else to go.

“We’re not heading back west, are we?” he asked, voice steady, but low. There was weight beneath the words, the unmistakable undertone of challenge. Something in the air shifted, like static building before a storm.

Mum looked up from the kettle. For a split second her face was blank—an empty frame where an expression should have been. Like she hadn't heard him, or like she'd heard something different to what he'd actually said.

“What?”

“This route,” Mack said, pulling a crumpled map from his pocket. The paper unfolded in his hands with a soft crackle, his fingers tracing the creases with exaggerated calm. “If you’re trying to avoid Dubbo, we should be heading north-east from here. But the way we’re going… we’re just looping back. Towards Cobar. Towards Broken Hill.”

He extended the map towards her, his finger landing firmly on a line that had begun to feel more like a trail of breadcrumbs than a plan. She didn’t come over. Didn’t even glance down.

Instead, something in her face closed. Her jaw tightened, and her eyes turned distant, like shutters slamming down against the morning light.

“I know where I’m going,” she snapped. Her voice had an edge now, not sharp like broken glass but dull and heavy, like a door forced shut against resistance.

Mack blinked. Just once. But it was enough to register the blow. “Okay. Just—trying to help.”

“Don’t.” Her voice was softer now. Frayed. “I don’t need help with directions, Mack. I need you both ready in ten minutes.”

The kettle clicked off with a flat snap, the heating element surrendering with a sound that reminded me of bones giving way under pressure. Steam drifted from the spout—thin, half-hearted, the breath of something too tired to finish the job properly. The water hadn’t reached a boil, not really. It was hot in the same way a bath runs tepid when left too long. Useless for anything that might have offered comfort.

Still, she poured. The water hit the bottom of the chipped mug with a joyless splash, mixing with what looked like a half-dissolved sachet of powdered coffee. The colour was wrong—pale and indecisive, more like dishwater than a drink. She wrapped both hands around the mug anyway, drawing it close like it might warm her bones if she held on long enough.

No one spoke.

I watched Mum lift the mug to her lips, the tremor in her hands small but unmistakable. Her eyes stayed on the window, not looking through it, exactly—more like looking past it, into something only she could see. Something distant. Or perhaps something approaching.

Mack folded the map and tucked it back into his pocket. The paper made a dry, rustling sound, like autumn leaves crumbling beneath a boot. His shoulders stayed tense, his mouth a thin, straight line, but he moved with care, as if roughness might draw too much attention. I could see it in the set of his jaw—that same quiet, coiled frustration that meant he’d understood something important. Something unwelcome.

We weren’t travelling to somewhere anymore. That part had ended.

We were leaving somewhere behind. Running from it, maybe. Though none of us knew what it was. Only that it followed us. And whatever direction Mum was steering us now, it had less to do with geography than with survival.

The room felt like it was shrinking. The air thicker with every breath. Walls leaning in, just a little. The carpet soaked in silence. The cold sharper than it had been. Outside, the grey light grew brighter by increments, but it didn’t feel like morning. Not really. Not in here.

In here, the darkness wasn’t lifting. It was learning how to stay.