4308.263 · September 19, 1988 AD
Promises That Won't Keep
Over the clink of dishes and the smell of lemon soap, Violet makes her sister a promise: soon. Jasmine can join the adventures, explore the forbidden places, see what lies beyond the fences. It's a small word, easily spoken. Then there's Ethan—the boy in the long coat who speaks of spirits among gravestones. Jasmine notices. Sisters always do. Some promises are made to be broken. Others never get the chance.
"Every promise feels light when spoken, but heavy once it's carried in the heart."
The breakfast plates are cleared. The morning stretches ahead, bright and unremarkable. In the kitchen's warm clatter, Violet speaks of lookouts at sunset and friends who don't slow down for anyone. Jasmine listens with the quiet intensity of someone who has spent her whole life watching from doorways. When she asks to come along, Violet doesn't say no. She says soon.
And then there's Ethan Mitchell. The stranger Violet met among crumbling headstones—tall, dark-coated, unsettlingly still. He speaks of ghosts as though they owe him favours. Only Michelle knows about the cemetery meetings. Jasmine, ever observant, has pieced together the rest.
On the weathered porch, Violet pauses between worlds. The Outback breathes its ancient breath, red and patient, holding her even as she dreams of elsewhere. Her father is already underground. Her mother stitches other people's sorrows into neat hems. The kookaburra laughs its wild laugh.
Then Jasmine appears, steady and waiting. Ready, Vi?
They step off the porch together, the boards creaking a final goodbye. The day is waiting. So is everything that comes after.
