Debbie Howells

“That's how birthdays were in our house. All hateful charades of pretty clothes, expensive presents, and ugly words . . .”

“I discover, too, that grief is different to different people. Comes in many guises. In shocked silences and closed doors around our village, as people try to shut it out. That a blank face or fleeting smile can hide the worst, most private kind of agony.”

“You can play the part for so long, wear the mask, say what people expect you to say. Fight for as long as there is air in your lungs. Fly if you have wings. But you can never be free from someone who won't let you go.”

“Everyone has a destiny. Rosie told me that. A future that already exists – hidden from us but still there, in the future – and each thing that happens to us, each choice we make, each person in our life takes us closer to it.”

“That’s the trouble with you young people.” Saying young as though it was a bad thing.“You’re in too darn much of a hurry to notice.”“Notice what, exactly?”“The difference,” she’d replied slowly, as if I were particularly stupid, “between what people want you to see, and what’s real.”

“I loved your world, Noah. It was a magical place, where there were stars and love, and there was hope. Hope. I don’t think you know how it is not to have that. I stole some of yours. It was beautiful, but there were too many secrets between us, and I always knew I’d have to give it back.”