1.
The bedroom remained exactly as Olivia had left it. Clothes still draped over the chair in the corner, textbooks stacked on the desk, half-finished nail polish bottles clustered on the windowsill. A life interrupted mid-sentence.
Lorraine stood in the doorway, as she did every morning, unable to cross the threshold yet equally unable to close the door. Frozen in liminal space.
She reached out to touch the door frame, tracing her fingers along the pencil marks that had tracked Olivia’s growth over sixteen years. The last Paul, made just three months before the accident, showed Olivia had finally outgrown her mother by half an inch. She’d been so delighted, dancing around the kitchen, suddenly looking down at Lorraine with theatrical superiority.
“You’re shrinking, Mum. It’s official. You’re entering your declining years.”
“Cheeky mare,” Lorraine had replied, swatting her with a tea towel.
Now, in the silent house, Lorraine closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the door frame, willing the memory into physical form. If she concentrated hard enough, perhaps she could step back into that moment, make it real again. Perhaps she could stay there.
Behind her, a floorboard creaked. Paul.
“You need to eat something,” he said, his voice careful, measured. They spoke to each other like this now—as though the wrong word might detonate something irreparable.
“I had toast earlier.”
“That was yesterday.”
Was it? Lorraine turned, finally tearing her gaze from Olivia’s room. Paul stood halfway up the stairs, one hand gripping the banister.
When had he developed those dark hollows beneath his eyes? When had his shoulders begun to slope forward like that?
He’d always been solid, dependable Paul, his physical presence a bedrock in their family life. Now he looked diminished, as though grief had hollowed him out from the inside.
He was suffering too. She knew this, intellectually. But emotional knowledge required resources she simply didn’t possess. It was taking everything she had just to continue breathing.
“I’ll come down in a bit.”
Paul nodded. “Your sister called again. She wants to come round later.”
Lorraine closed her eyes. “Not today.”
“You said that yesterday. And the day before.”
“Because it’s still true today.”
A silence stretched between them, taut with unspoken words. Things like: You can’t keep going like this. Or: We need to face this together. Or worst of all: She’s gone, and shutting yourself in this mausoleum won’t bring her back.
Finally, Paul sighed. “I’ve made soup. It’s on the hob when you want it.”
Lorraine listened to his retreating footsteps, the gentle thud of each connection with the stairs. When he reached the bottom, she turned back to Olivia’s room, drawn once more into her vigil.
Sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains Olivia had chosen herself, casting patterns across the unmade bed. The duvet was still rumpled from the last morning Olivia had bounded out of bed, late for school as usual, rushing through breakfast with her uniform half-buttoned. Her last ordinary day.
If Lorraine had known, would she have done anything differently? Watched more carefully as Olivia left, memorising her features, the exact cadence of her laugh? Held her a moment longer, sensing the finite nature of their remaining time?
A buzzing sound broke her reverie—her phone, abandoned on Olivia’s desk days ago. She stepped into the room, the first time that morning, and picked it up. Fourteen missed calls: Paul’s sister, her own sister, the grief counsellor they’d seen twice before Lorraine refused to return, her supervisor from the primary school where she taught (or used to teach—she wasn’t sure where things stood after three months of compassionate leave).
She swiped away the notifications, unopened. What could any of them possibly say that would matter? What words could possibly penetrate the thick fog that had settled over her consciousness?
As she set the phone down, her fingers brushed against Olivia’s journal—a small, leather-bound book with a delicate brass clasp. She’d found it the week after the funeral, tucked beneath Olivia’s mattress. For days, she’d carried it around the house, alternating between desperate curiosity and reverent restraint. To read it would be an invasion, but also the closest thing to hearing Olivia’s voice again.
In the end, she’d only managed a few pages before the raw, unfiltered intimacy of her daughter’s inner world had overwhelmed her. Typical teenage concerns—friendship dramas, insecurities about her appearance, cryptic references to a boy named ‘J’ that Lorraine had never heard mentioned. The mundane miracle of an ordinary life, now extinguished.
Lorraine picked up the journal again, running her thumb over the embossed cover. She’d given it to Olivia for her fifteenth birthday, encouraging her to record her thoughts and experiences. “One day you’ll look back and be fascinated by who you were,” she’d told her daughter.
One day. The cruelty of that assumption—that there would be endless days stretching ahead, that time was a luxury they possessed in abundance.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, not a call but a notification from Instagram—an app she barely used but had installed years ago to monitor Olivia’s social media activity in the early days. Another parental precaution that had proved useless in the end.
Lorraine glanced at the screen: A memory from three years ago. She opened it without thinking and found herself staring at Olivia’s face—thirteen years old, gap-toothed grin, arms slung around her best friend Emma at the beach. Lorraine had taken the photo herself during their summer holiday in Cornwall. The girls had spent the entire day building an elaborate sand castle with moats and towers, defending it against the incoming tide with the fierce determination of generals commanding an army.
The image blurred as tears filled Lorraine’s eyes. She blinked them away, unwilling to obscure even a pixel of her daughter’s face. With trembling fingers, she zoomed in, studying the familiar features as though committing them to memory. As though she hadn’t already done so every day for sixteen years.
When the screen dimmed, Lorraine tapped it frantically, terrified of losing the image. In her haste, she swiped to the next photo in the memory—Olivia and Paul, attempting to fly a kite in the stiff sea breeze. Paul was laughing, his head thrown back, one arm wrapped around their daughter’s shoulders. Olivia was mid-sentence, her expression animated, hands gesturing emphatically as she explained something to her father.
The casual intimacy of it pierced Lorraine like a physical blow. They’d been so happy, hadn’t they? A normal family with normal concerns. Before.
She closed the app, unable to bear any more. As she did, another notification appeared—a suggested video on Instagram. Usually, she ignored these, but the title caught her attention: “Connecting with Loved Ones Beyond the Veil: Live with Zara.”
Beneath the title was a thumbnail image of a woman with long, dark hair and intense eyes, her hands outstretched toward the camera, surrounded by soft, ambient lighting. Something about her expression—serene yet penetrating—made Lorraine pause.
Without fully understanding why, she tapped the video. Perhaps it was simply the need for distraction, for anything that might momentarily dull the relentless ache of her grief.
The video began to play, filling Olivia’s quiet room with an unfamiliar voice.
“Welcome, seekers,” the woman said, her tone warm and intimate, as though addressing each viewer personally. “I’m Zara, and I’m here to be your bridge between worlds.”
Lorraine’s finger hovered over the screen, ready to close the video. This was ridiculous. She didn’t believe in psychics or mediums or any of that supernatural nonsense. She was—had been—a primary school teacher, grounded in the practical realities of education and child development.
But something in Zara’s calm, assured manner kept her watching.
“I know many of you are carrying the heaviest of burdens,” Zara said, her gaze seemingly fixed directly on Lorraine. “The loss of someone irreplaceable. The desperate need for one more conversation, one more chance to say all the things left unsaid. I understand that pain. I’ve lived it.”
Lorraine sank onto the edge of Olivia’s bed, still clutching the phone. The mattress gave beneath her weight, releasing a faint trace of Olivia’s perfume—the vanilla body spray she’d used religiously. Lorraine inhaled sharply, the familiar scent both comfort and torment.
On screen, Zara closed her eyes, her expression shifting to one of deep concentration. “I’m sensing a presence joining us,” she said after a moment. “A young energy. Female. Someone who left suddenly, unexpectedly.”
A chill ran down Lorraine’s spine. Of course, it was vague enough to apply to countless situations. Basic cold reading techniques. She’d read about this somewhere.
“This young woman is showing me…water,” Zara continued, her brow furrowed. “There’s water involved in her passing. And she’s telling me she didn’t suffer. She wants someone to know that—her mother, I think. She says her mother torments herself with thoughts of her final moments, but she felt no pain.”
Lorraine’s breath caught in her throat. Olivia had drowned. A school swimming trip gone catastrophically wrong. The post-mortem had confirmed death by drowning, but Lorraine had been haunted by images of her daughter’s final moments—the panic, the struggle, the terror of realising help wouldn’t arrive in time.
“She’s showing me…the letter O,” Zara said, her eyes still closed. “This is significant to her. Her name, perhaps, or someone close to her. And she’s mentioning something about a book—a journal. Something private she kept. She’s concerned about it.”
The phone trembled in Lorraine’s hand. This was absurd. Coincidence, nothing more. O was a common initial. Many teenage girls kept journals. The reference to water could apply to countless tragedies.
“This girl,” Zara said, “she has a message for her mother. She says, ‘Tell her I’m still watching over her. Tell her I see her in my room every day. Tell her it’s okay to close the door sometimes.’“
A sob escaped Lorraine’s throat, raw and unexpected. She clapped her hand over her mouth, but too late—the sound had already broken free, echoing in the quiet room.
Downstairs, she heard movement—Paul, no doubt wondering about the noise. She quickly lowered the volume on her phone, not wanting him to discover her watching this. He wouldn’t understand. He’d think she was being exploited in her vulnerable state. Perhaps she was.
But as Zara continued to speak, describing a girl with “bright energy” and “a laugh that filled rooms,” Lorraine felt something shift inside her. Not healing—nothing so dramatic or complete. But a tiny fracture in the solid wall of her grief, a hairline crack through which a different kind of pain began to seep. Not the dull, constant ache of loss, but the sharp, urgent pain of hope.
Dangerous hope. Irrational hope. But hope nonetheless.
When the livestream ended thirty minutes later, Lorraine remained motionless on Olivia’s bed, her phone clutched to her chest like a talisman.
Outside, rain had begun to fall, pattering gently against the window. The same window Olivia had sneaked out of once, aged fourteen, to meet friends for an illicit midnight picnic in the park. Lorraine had grounded her for a week when she found out, terrified by all the ways the night could have ended in tragedy.
If only she’d known what real tragedy looked like.
She looked down at her phone, at Zara’s serene face frozen on the screen. With a hesitant finger, she tapped the “Follow” button, then set the phone aside.
From the doorway came a soft knock. Paul stood there, a mug of tea in his hand.
“I heard you crying.”
Lorraine nodded, not trusting her voice.
“That’s good,” he said, stepping forward to offer the tea. “Crying is good. Better than…” He gestured vaguely, encompassing her silence, her withdrawal, her absence from their shared life.
She accepted the mug, wrapping her cold fingers around its warmth. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just…be here. With me. In whatever way you can.”
He sat beside her on the bed, the mattress dipping under their combined weight. For the first time in months, Lorraine didn’t immediately stiffen at his proximity. Instead, she leaned slightly toward him, allowing their shoulders to touch. A small connection, but something.
Paul noticed. Of course he did. His breath caught almost imperceptibly, but he said nothing, clearly afraid of shattering this fragile moment.
They sat in silence, side by side in their daughter’s room, as the afternoon light faded and shadows lengthened across the floor. And all the while, Lorraine’s mind returned to Zara’s words, replaying them on an endless loop.
“Tell her it’s okay to close the door sometimes.”
But not yet. Not today.
2.
The following morning, Lorraine woke with a clarity she hadn’t experienced in months. The fog hadn’t lifted entirely, but it had thinned, allowing shafts of consciousness to penetrate.
She showered—a proper shower, not the perfunctory rinse she’d been managing when absolutely necessary.
She dressed in clean clothes, brushed her hair, even applied a light layer of moisturiser to her face.
When she entered the kitchen, Paul was at the sink, washing up breakfast dishes. He turned at the sound of her footsteps and froze, a dripping plate suspended in his hands.
“Morning,” Lorraine said.
“Morning. There’s coffee. And I can make you some toast, or—”
“Toast would be nice. Thank you.”
She sat at the kitchen table, noticing for the first time how dusty it had become. Had they always been this lax about housekeeping? No—this was new. This was grief transforming their once-orderly home into a place of neglect.
As Paul busied himself with bread and butter, moving with the careful precision of someone afraid to break a spell, Lorraine took out her phone. She’d spent half the night researching Zara Reynolds—”Spiritual Serenity with Zara” across multiple platforms. The woman had an impressive online presence—Instagram, TikTok, YouTube, Facebook, a polished website offering various services from group readings to personalised “spiritual consultations.”
Her biography described her as a “natural-born psychic medium” who had discovered her gifts after a near-death experience at nineteen. There were countless testimonials from grateful clients who claimed Zara had connected them with deceased loved ones, providing details “only the departed could have known.”
Critics existed too, of course. Sceptical commenters who pointed out the vagueness of many readings, the universal applicability of certain statements, the psychological techniques used to elicit information from vulnerable clients. Lorraine had read these criticisms carefully, reminding herself to maintain perspective.
And yet, the specific details Zara had mentioned during the livestream—the water, the journal, the initial O—nagged at her. Too precise to be mere coincidence, surely?
“What are you looking at?” Paul asked, setting a plate of buttered toast before her.
Lorraine hesitated. “Just…something I found online. A support group, sort of.”
Not technically a lie. In the comments section of Zara’s videos, people shared grief stories, offered mutual support, formed a community of the bereaved.
Paul’s expression brightened. “That’s great. I’ve been suggesting something like that for months. Is it local?”
“No, it’s…online. Social media.”
His enthusiasm dimmed slightly, but he nodded. “Still good. Connection is connection. Your therapist said—”
“She wasn’t my therapist,” Lorraine corrected. “We only had two sessions.”
“Right. Sorry.” Paul retreated, moving back to the sink to finish the dishes.
Lorraine bit into her toast, surprised to find herself actually hungry. As she ate, she scrolled through Zara’s Instagram feed, pausing on an announcement: “LIVE GROUP READING—TONIGHT 8PM—SPIRITUAL SERENITY WITH ZARA.”
Beneath the post, hundreds of comments from eager followers:
“Can’t wait! Last week you connected me with my grandma and I’ve felt her presence ever since!”
“Zara is the real deal, people. She told me things NO ONE could have known about my brother.”
“Will be there with bells on! Hoping to hear from my husband 🙏”
The hungry desperation in these comments should have been a warning sign. These were people like her—broken by loss, grasping at anything that might ease their pain. Easy targets.
And yet, Lorraine found herself marking the time in her mental calendar.
“I thought I might tackle the laundry today,” she said to Paul’s back. “It’s gotten a bit out of hand.”
He turned. “I can help. I’m working from home.”
“No need. You’ve been doing everything for months. It’s my turn to contribute.”
A careful smile spread across his face. “Okay. But don’t overdo it. Small steps.”
Small steps. That had been the grief counsellor’s mantra. Small steps back toward normal life, whatever “normal” meant now. As though their life were a path they could simply retrace, back to a time before the earth had shifted beneath their feet.
“Actually,” Lorraine said, making a decision, “I might call Emma’s mum. See if Emma wants to come round after school.”
Now Paul’s surprise was complete. “Really? That would be…that would be wonderful, Lor. Emma asks about you all the time.”
Emma. Olivia’s best friend since reception. The girls had been inseparable, spending countless weekends at each other’s houses, sharing clothes, secrets, the particular intensity of teenage female friendship.
After the funeral, Emma had visited daily for weeks, sitting quietly in Olivia’s room with Lorraine, sometimes talking, sometimes just being present. But as Lorraine had withdrawn further into her grief, she’d stopped answering the door, stopped responding to messages. Eventually, Emma’s visits had ceased.
Another casualty of Lorraine’s inability to cope.
“I’ve not been fair to her,” Lorraine said. “She lost Olivia too.”
Paul approached the table and placed his hand over hers. “She’ll understand. She’s a good kid.”
Lorraine nodded, fighting back tears. This was what recovery looked like, wasn’t it? Acknowledging pain beyond her own. Reconnecting with the living, even as she mourned the dead.
But even as she made these plans—the laundry, the visit with Emma—part of her mind remained fixed on the evening’s livestream with Zara. The possibility, however remote, of another connection with Olivia.
Was it completely irrational to hope? Probably. Almost certainly. But what was grief if not a state of constant irrationality? Nothing made sense in this new reality. Why not embrace the nonsensical, if it offered even momentary relief?
Throughout the day, Lorraine moved through the motions of normalcy. She washed and folded three loads of laundry. She called Emma’s mother, Jane, who answered with surprised delight and immediately arranged for Emma to visit after school. She even ventured into the garden, clearing dead leaves from the small pond Olivia had loved—home to a family of frogs she’d named after characters from her favourite books.
But beneath these activities, anticipation hummed. Eight o’clock. Zara’s livestream. Another chance.
When Emma arrived at four, Lorraine was struck by how much the girl had changed in the months since she’d last seen her. She seemed taller, her face thinner, childhood softness giving way to teenage angles. She carried herself differently too—more hesitant, less of the boisterous energy Lorraine remembered.
“Hi, Mrs. Winters,” Emma said, standing awkwardly in the hallway, clutching the straps of her school backpack.
“Emma,” Lorraine said, then, acting on instinct, pulled the girl into a hug. Emma stiffened momentarily before melting into the embrace, her thin arms wrapping tightly around Lorraine’s waist.
“I’ve missed you,” Emma whispered against Lorraine’s shoulder.
“I’ve missed you too. I’m sorry I’ve been…absent.”
They separated, both wiping at tears. Emma offered a watery smile. “It’s okay. Mum said you needed space.”
Jane. Always diplomatic. Always understanding. Another friendship Lorraine had neglected in her grief.
“Do you want to see Olivia’s room?” Lorraine asked, knowing the answer. “I’ve kept it the same.”
Emma nodded, and together they climbed the stairs. Paul watched from the kitchen doorway.
In Olivia’s room, Emma moved with reverent familiarity, touching objects she’d seen a hundred times before—Olivia’s collection of snow globes from various holidays, the cork board covered with photo booth strips of the two of them pulling faces, the stuffed elephant Olivia had slept with since childhood but pretended to be too grown-up for.
“It still smells like her,” Emma said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Her stupid vanilla spray. I bought a bottle of it, you know. After. Just to have it.”
Lorraine sat beside her, the same spot where she’d watched Zara’s livestream the previous day. “She practically bathed in the stuff. Used to set me off sneezing.”
Emma laughed, a sound so unexpected that Lorraine startled slightly. “Remember when she sprayed it all over Jamie Peterson because he said it was childish? His football kit reeked for weeks.”
“Jamie Peterson?” Lorraine asked. “I think she mentioned him in her journal.”
“She wrote about him?” Emma grinned. “She had the biggest crush on him last year. Wouldn’t shut up about his ‘soulful eyes.’ We used to take the long way to Biology just to walk past the football pitch when his class had PE.”
These were the details Lorraine had missed—the everyday minutiae of her daughter’s life. She hadn’t known about Jamie Peterson. Hadn’t known Olivia deliberately lengthened her route between classes for glimpses of a boy. Such a normal, teenage thing to do. Such an unbearable reminder of all the normal, teenage experiences Olivia would never have.
“Tell me more,” Lorraine said, surprising herself. “Tell me about things I didn’t know.”
Emma looked uncertain. “Are you sure? Mum said I shouldn’t talk too much about Olivia, that it might be painful for you.”
“It is painful. But not hearing about her is worse. It’s like losing her all over again, piece by piece.”
For the next hour, Emma shared stories—insignificant moments, inside jokes, minor dramas that had seemed earth-shattering at the time. Lorraine listened with ravenous attention, mentally cataloguing each new detail, each previously unknown facet of her daughter’s life.
When Jane arrived to collect Emma, the girl promised to return soon, perhaps with photos that Lorraine hadn’t seen. They hugged again, longer this time, united in their shared loss.
After they left, Paul approached. “That seemed to go well.”
Lorraine nodded, suddenly exhausted. “It did. She’s a lovely girl. I should never have shut her out.”
“You weren’t yourself. No one blamed you.”
Lorraine checked the time on her phone: 6:45 PM. Just over an hour until Zara’s livestream. “I think I need to lie down for a bit. It’s been…a lot.”
Paul nodded, clearly disappointed but trying not to show it. “Of course. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”
Lorraine retreated to their bedroom—not Olivia’s room, a small victory—and closed the door. She lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering what Emma would think of her watching a psychic medium. What Paul would think if he knew.
But they hadn’t been there during yesterday’s livestream. They hadn’t heard the specific details Zara had mentioned—the water, the journal, the letter O. The message about Lorraine standing in the doorway every day.
At 7:55, Lorraine positioned herself against the headboard, phone in hand, and opened Instagram. Zara’s profile showed she was preparing to go live, a countdown timer ticking away the seconds. Already, hundreds of people were waiting, sending messages of anticipation and hope.
The livestream began at eight. Zara appeared, seated in what looked like a home studio—soft lighting, plants visible in the background, candles flickering on shelves behind her. She wore a simple black top, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, her only adornment a pendant of clear crystal on a silver chain.
“Welcome, seekers,” she said, her voice warm and intimate, just as before. “I feel the energy already tonight—so many souls gathering with us, eager to connect.”
Lorraine found herself leaning toward the screen, as though proximity might somehow improve her chances of receiving a message. Ridiculous, she knew. And yet.
“Before we begin,” Zara continued, “I want to acknowledge everyone here. Whether you’re a regular in our spiritual family or joining for the first time, I see you. I honour your grief, your hope, your journey.”
The comments section flooded with heart emojis and thank-yous. Lorraine watched without participating, still maintaining at least this boundary.
“I’ll be opening myself to messages from the other side,” Zara said. “If something resonates with you, please say so in the comments. Remember, spirits often communicate in ways that may seem vague or symbolic to us, but carry deep meaning for their intended recipients.”
A convenient disclaimer, the sceptical part of Lorraine’s mind noted. Cover for missed guesses and vague proclamations.
Zara closed her eyes, pressing her fingertips to her temples. For nearly a minute, she remained silent, her expression one of deep concentration.
“I’m being drawn to someone…someone who’s lost a child. A daughter.” Zara’s eyes remained closed. “This is a relatively recent loss. Within the last year, I believe.”
Dozens of comments immediately appeared, people claiming this resonance. Of course—the tragic commonality of child loss.
“The daughter is showing me something…academic. Books, studying. She was a good student. And something about water—yes, water is significant in her passing.”
Lorraine’s pulse quickened. Again with the water. Again with details that could apply to Olivia.
“She’s telling me…she’s telling me her mother is watching this right now. Her mother who just recently started to reconnect with the world.”
Emma’s visit. How could Zara possibly know about that?
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Should she comment? Identify herself? But something held her back—caution, perhaps, or the last vestige of scepticism.
“This daughter—she’s showing me a bedroom. Her bedroom, kept exactly as it was. She’s expressing gratitude for this preservation of her space, but also concern. She wants her mother to know it’s okay to start tidying, to start sorting. This isn’t about erasing her presence—she says she isn’t contained in objects.”
Tears welled in Lorraine’s eyes. This was too specific, too accurate to be coincidence or cold reading. How could Zara know about Olivia’s preserved bedroom? About Lorraine’s reluctance to move anything, to disturb the last physical arrangement her daughter had created?
With trembling fingers, she typed a comment: “This sounds like my daughter Olivia.”
Almost immediately, Zara opened her eyes, seeming to look directly at the camera. “Yes, I’m feeling a connection to Olivia now. She’s coming through very clearly.”
Lorraine’s breath caught in her throat.
“Olivia wants you to know she’s at peace,” Zara said, her gaze intense. “She says the water…it was quick. She didn’t suffer. She says you worry about her final moments, but she wants you to release that worry.”
Another comment from Lorraine: “She drowned on a school swimming trip.”
Zara nodded. “Yes, I’m seeing that now. A pool. Other children. Panic and confusion. But Olivia herself…she was at peace faster than you imagine. She says there was a moment of fear, then nothing but light and release.”
Tears streamed down Lorraine’s face now. She made no attempt to wipe them away.
“She’s showing me a journal. Something private. She says…she says it’s okay for you to read it now. She wants you to know her thoughts, her everyday concerns. It will help you feel closer to her.”
Permission. That’s what Lorraine had been waiting for, she realised. Permission to fully enter her daughter’s private world, to know her completely in a way she hadn’t during life.
“Olivia is showing me a man now,” Zara said, her expression softening. “She’s concerned about him too. Says he’s suffering quietly, trying to be strong for everyone else. She wants him to know she sees his pain too.”
Paul. Of course Olivia would be concerned about her father. They’d had such a close relationship, built on inside jokes and shared interests. Paul had been the one to teach Olivia to swim, ironically. Had spent countless weekends in community pools, patiently guiding her from reluctant doggy-paddle to confident strokes.
The livestream continued for nearly an hour, Zara moving between different “spirits,” connecting with various viewers.
When the session finally ended, Lorraine sat motionless, her phone clutched in her hand, tears drying on her cheeks. Outside her bedroom window, night had fallen completely. The house was quiet; Paul must have gone to bed in the spare room, where he’d been sleeping since Lorraine had started spending nights in Olivia’s room.
A notification appeared on her screen—a private message from Zara.
“Lorraine—Olivia came through so strongly tonight. I rarely experience such a clear connection. If you’d like to explore this further, I offer private sessions where we can focus solely on communicating with Olivia. These sessions allow for deeper, more meaningful exchanges. Visit my website for details. Sending you light and healing.”
Lorraine clicked the link without hesitation, her earlier scepticism completely overridden. The website was professionally designed, offering various services at different price points:
– Group Healing Circle (virtual): £25 per session
– Spiritual Guidance Consultation: £75 for 30 minutes
– Private Spirit Connection: £200 for 60 minutes
– Premium Continued Connection Package: £500 monthly for weekly private sessions
The amounts should have given her pause. Should have triggered warning bells. But all Lorraine could think about was Zara’s description of Olivia’s final moments—quick, peaceful, a release into light. The comfort that image provided was worth any price.
She booked a Private Spirit Connection session for the following afternoon, entering her credit card details without hesitation. The confirmation email arrived immediately: “Your journey to reconnection begins tomorrow at THE TIME. PREPARE YOUR HEART AND MIND FOR THIS SACRED ENCOUNTER.”
Only after completing the booking did Lorraine realise she’d need to explain her unavailability to Paul. She considered lying—claiming a doctor’s appointment or meeting with a friend—but something stopped her. They’d had enough deception in their marriage lately, with her pretending to be coping and him pretending to believe her.
Still, she couldn’t bring herself to tell the complete truth. Not yet. Paul wouldn’t understand. He’d think she was being exploited, manipulated in her vulnerable state. He might be right, but Lorraine wasn’t ready to consider that possibility. Not when she’d just experienced the first genuine comfort since Olivia’s death.
As she finally prepared for bed, moving through her nighttime routine with more presence than she’d managed in months, Lorraine felt something she’d thought permanently extinguished: hope. Not for Olivia’s return—she wasn’t that far gone—but for continuation. For connection beyond the grave. For the possibility that death wasn’t an ending but a transition.
Dangerous hope. Expensive hope. But hope nonetheless.
3.
The private session with Zara exceeded Lorraine’s already elevated expectations. Conducted via video call from Zara’s serene home studio, the hour passed in a blur of specific details and emotional revelations.
Zara channelled messages that she claimed came directly from Olivia—references to a birthmark on Lorraine’s hip that Olivia had called her “reverse strawberry” as a child. Mentions of the time Olivia had accidentally broken Lorraine’s favourite teapot and hidden the pieces in the garden. A reminder about the lullaby Lorraine had sung every night until Olivia was nearly ten, though she’d pretended to be too grown-up for it after her eighth birthday.
“Olivia says she misses your Sunday morning pancakes,” Zara said, her expression softening into a gentle smile. “She says nobody makes them quite like you do—too much vanilla, which she always complained about but secretly loved.”
Lorraine pressed her fingers to her lips, stifling a sob. Sunday morning pancakes had been their ritual—Lorraine at the stove, Olivia perched on the counter despite being told countless times it wasn’t safe, Paul reading bits of newspaper aloud as they cooked. They hadn’t had pancakes since the accident. Couldn’t bear the empty space at the breakfast table.
“She’s showing me something else. A necklace, I think. Something silver, with a small pendant. A gift from you that she treasured.”
The butterfly necklace. Lorraine had given it to Olivia on her thirteenth birthday—sterling silver with tiny diamonds forming the delicate wings. Olivia had worn it daily, only removing it for swimming lessons.
Swimming lessons. The bitter irony twisted in Lorraine’s stomach. All those careful precautions—removing jewellery, wearing the proper cap, following pool safety rules—and still, the water had claimed her.
“Yes,” Lorraine said. “A butterfly necklace.”
“She wants you to know she was wearing it. In spirit, I mean. She says she has it with her, wherever she is now. She says objects can transcend the physical plane when they carry enough emotional significance.”
The necklace had been returned with Olivia’s other belongings after the accident. It currently sat in Lorraine’s bedside drawer, untouched since she’d received it. She hadn’t been able to look at it, much less wear it.
“Should I…should I wear it? Would that help me feel closer to her?”
Zara smiled, her expression one of gentle understanding. “Olivia says that’s entirely up to you. But she believes objects can create bridges between realms. When you’re ready, holding or wearing items that were precious to her might strengthen your connection.”
The session continued for the full hour, Zara channelling what she claimed were direct messages from Olivia—reassurances, memories, expressions of continued love. By the end, Lorraine felt simultaneously drained and rejuvenated, as though she’d been emptied of one kind of emotion and filled with another.
“Before we conclude,” Zara said, her tone shifting subtly, “I want to acknowledge the rare clarity of this connection. In my fifteen years as a medium, I’ve rarely experienced such a direct channel. Olivia’s energy is remarkably strong, her presence unusually accessible.”
Lorraine nodded. “I felt it too. It’s like she was right here with us.”
“This is a special circumstance. One that I believe warrants further exploration. The window between our world and the next isn’t always this clear. If you’re interested, I offer a Premium Continued Connection package that would allow us to nurture and develop this extraordinary link with Olivia.”
“I’d like that. Whatever it takes.”
Zara nodded. “I believe it’s the right decision. Olivia’s energy suggests she has much more to share with you. The Premium package includes weekly private sessions, priority access to group events, and my personal availability via messaging for moments when you feel Olivia’s presence and need immediate interpretation.”
“That sounds perfect,” Lorraine said, already reaching for her credit card.
“It’s an investment in continued connection. But I believe some relationships transcend ordinary value systems. What price can we put on communication with those we’ve lost?”
None, Lorraine thought. No price was too high for even the possibility of continuing her relationship with Olivia.
As she completed the transaction, a small voice of rationality attempted to surface from beneath her desperate hope. Five hundred pounds monthly was significant—especially given her extended leave from teaching. But they had savings. Paul’s income as an IT consultant was stable. They could manage.
And even if they couldn’t, what did financial security matter compared to this miraculous connection?
After ending the call, Lorraine sat motionless at the kitchen table, her laptop open before her, mind racing. She felt lighter than she had in months, almost buoyant with the relief of hearing “Olivia’s” thoughts, memories, reassurances.
The possibility that consciousness continued, that her daughter still existed in some form, was a revelation more powerful than any religious experience.
The back door opened, startling her. Paul entered, carrying a bag of groceries. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of her sitting normally at the kitchen table, laptop open as though engaged in everyday activities.
“Hey.” He set the groceries on the counter. “Everything okay?”
Lorraine nodded, suddenly uncertain how much to share. Paul had always been the pragmatic one in their relationship—rational, methodical, sceptical of anything that couldn’t be empirically verified. He’d never expressed any spiritual beliefs, had declined to have Olivia baptised despite pressure from his religious mother.
“I was just…looking into some support resources,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes.
Paul began unpacking the groceries, his movements measured and deliberate. “That’s good. Any particular type of support?”
Lorraine hesitated. “It’s a bit unconventional.”
“Unconventional is fine,” Paul said, placing a carton of milk in the refrigerator. “Whatever helps.”
“It’s a…a medium.” The words emerged in a rush. “Someone who claims to communicate with the dead. With Olivia.”
Paul’s hands stilled. He closed the refrigerator door and turned to face her fully, his expression neutral. “A medium.”
“I know how it sounds. I was sceptical too, at first. But she knew things, Paul. Things nobody could have known. Details about Olivia, about our family, about—”
“What kind of details?” Paul interrupted.
“The butterfly necklace. The broken teapot incident. The reverse strawberry birthmark. Sunday pancakes.” Lorraine leaned forward, willing him to understand. “She even knew about Emma visiting yesterday. How could she possibly have known these things if she weren’t actually communicating with Olivia?”
Paul sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Lor, these people are professionals at extracting information. They make vague statements, watch for reactions, build on what sticks. It’s called cold reading. And anything they can’t get directly, they can find online. Social media, obituaries, public records.”
“Olivia’s broken teapot wasn’t on social media,” Lorraine said. “Neither was my birthmark. Those are private family memories.”
“And this medium’s name?”
“Zara. Spiritual Serenity with Zara.”
Paul nodded. “And have you paid her anything?”
“What does that matter? If she’s helping me connect with our daughter—”
“So that’s a yes.” Paul’s voice remained calm, but his jaw tightened. “How much, Lor?”
“It’s an investment in healing,” Lorraine said, echoing Zara’s phrasing. “In maintaining our connection with Olivia.”
“How much?”
Lorraine looked away. “Five hundred pounds. Monthly. For the premium package.”
“Five hundred— Lorraine, that’s more than our mortgage payment!”
“It’s our savings. Our money. And what better use for it than this? Than continuing to communicate with our daughter?”
“Our daughter is dead.” The words fell between them like stones, hard and unyielding. “I hate that as much as you do. It destroys me every single day. But paying some internet psychic won’t change it.”
“You don’t understand,” Lorraine said, rising from her chair. “You weren’t there. You didn’t hear the things she knew. Olivia is still with us, Paul. Not physically, but her consciousness, her spirit—whatever you want to call it—it continues.”
Paul approached her slowly, as one might a frightened animal. “Lor, I understand you want to believe that. I do too. But this woman is exploiting your grief. Our grief. She’s taking advantage of your desperation to connect with Olivia.”
“You’re wrong.” She stepped back from his outstretched hand. “Zara has a genuine gift. She’s helping me. For the first time since we lost Olivia, I feel like I can breathe again. Like there’s hope.”
“False hope. Based on manipulation and cold reading techniques. Please, let’s think about this rationally. Five hundred pounds monthly for what? For someone to tell you comforting lies?”
“They’re not lies!” Lorraine’s voice rose sharply. “Why can’t you just support me in this? Why do you have to question the one thing that’s finally helping me cope?”
“Because I love you. Because I can’t stand by and watch you be exploited. Because if healing comes, it needs to be based on truth, not expensive fantasies.”
“The truth?” Lorraine laughed bitterly. “The truth is that our sixteen-year-old daughter drowned on a school swimming trip that you encouraged her to attend. The truth is that I can barely function most days because the pain of losing her is so enormous it feels physical. The truth is that if Zara is offering me even a shred of comfort, a moment’s peace from this unbearable grief, it’s worth every penny we have.”
Paul flinched as though she’d struck him. “You blame me.”
The accusation hung between them, the first time either had voiced it aloud. Lorraine immediately regretted her words, but couldn’t take them back.
“I don’t,” she said, but the denial lacked conviction. “I just…I need this, Paul. I need to believe Olivia is still with us somehow. I need to hear her, even if it’s through someone else. Can you understand that?”
Paul stared at her for a long moment. “I understand that you’re in pain. That you’ll grasp at anything that seems to lessen it. But this isn’t healthy, Lor. It’s delaying real healing.”
“Real healing?” Lorraine sniffed. “What does that even mean? Moving on? Forgetting her?”
“Never forgetting her,” Paul said firmly. “But finding a way to incorporate her loss into our lives without it destroying us. Without it costing us our marriage, our financial security, our grip on reality.”
Lorraine turned away, unable to bear the compassion in his eyes. “I’ve made my decision. I’m going to continue working with Zara.”
“Even if I think it’s a mistake?”
“Yes.” The word emerged as barely more than a whisper, but it carried the weight of certainty. “Even then.”
Paul nodded slowly, accepting her position if not agreeing with it. “I can’t stop you. But I won’t pretend I approve. And I won’t watch you empty our savings account for this…this spiritual snake oil.”
“Fine,” Lorraine snapped, hurt morphing into anger. “But don’t interfere. Don’t try to ‘debunk’ Zara or undermine what I’m experiencing. This is important to me.”
“I can see that.” Paul gathered his keys from the counter. “I need some air. We can talk more later, when we’re both calmer.”
After he left, Lorraine sank back into her chair, emotionally exhausted. She hadn’t expected Paul to immediately embrace her newfound spiritual path, but his outright rejection stung. Especially when Zara—and through her, Olivia—had offered such profound comfort.
She opened her laptop again, navigating to Zara’s website. There was a members-only section for Premium clients, filled with exclusive content—guided meditations for enhancing spiritual connections, testimonials from others who’d found peace through Zara’s services, a forum where clients shared experiences.
Lorraine immersed herself in these materials, reading story after story of grieving parents, spouses, siblings, all claiming to have reconnected with their loved ones through Zara’s mediumship. The testimonials were emotional, specific, compelling. If all these people believed, how could they all be wrong?
Hours passed. Outside, dusk gathered. Paul hadn’t returned. Lorraine should have been concerned, should have messaged him, but her attention remained fixed on the digital rabbit hole of spiritual connection. She joined the forum, creating a profile that identified her only as “Olivia’s Mum.”
Almost immediately, welcoming messages appeared from other members:
“So sorry for your loss. You’re in the right place.”
“Zara helped me connect with my son after his passing. Life-changing.”
“The Premium package is worth every penny. My weekly sessions are the highlight of my existence now.”
Lorraine responded gratefully, finding unexpected solace in this community of the bereaved. These people understood her desperation, her willingness to try anything that might maintain a connection with Olivia. They didn’t judge or question or demand “rational” approaches to grief.
When she finally looked up from her laptop, it was past midnight. No sign of Paul. No messages on her phone. She should have been worried, but a strange detachment had settled over her. Paul couldn’t understand what she was experiencing. Perhaps it was better this way—creating some distance while she explored this new path.
She made her way upstairs, pausing as always at Olivia’s bedroom door. But tonight, for the first time, she didn’t enter. Instead, she recalled Zara’s—or rather, Olivia’s—message: “Tell her it’s okay to close the door sometimes.”
Tentatively, Lorraine reached out and pulled the door closed. The soft click of the latch felt momentous, a boundary established not between her and Olivia, but between one phase of grief and another. Olivia wasn’t contained in this preserved room. She existed elsewhere—in memory, in spirit, in whatever realm Zara could access.
In her own bedroom, Lorraine opened the bedside drawer and removed the butterfly necklace. The silver had tarnished slightly from months of neglect.
She polished it with the edge of her T-shirt, then fastened it around her neck. The pendant rested in the hollow of her throat, cool against her skin.
“Goodnight, Olivia,” she whispered, touching the butterfly’s delicate wings. “I’ll talk to you again soon.”
4.
Over the following weeks, Lorraine’s life reorganised itself entirely around her sessions with Zara. The weekly Premium connections became the fixed points of her existence, everything else relegated to the spaces between.
She planned her days, her activities, even her thoughts with these spiritual appointments in mind, collecting experiences and questions to bring to Zara, to Olivia.
Paul had returned late the night of their argument, sleeping in the spare room without discussion. Since then, they’d established an uneasy truce—he didn’t directly criticise her involvement with Zara, and she didn’t flaunt it before him.
But the strain showed in a thousand small ways: conversations that stopped abruptly when he entered a room, the careful scheduling of her sessions for times when he would be at work, the growing distance in their marriage bed on the rare occasions they shared it.
“I’m meeting Jane for coffee this morning,” Lorraine announced over breakfast, three weeks into her Premium package subscription. “Emma’s mum,” she added unnecessarily, when Paul looked momentarily confused.
“That’s good. How is she?”
“Fine, I think. It’s been a while.” Lorraine stirred her tea absently. “I should probably catch up with more people. I’ve been…isolated.”
Paul nodded. “Anyone in particular you’re thinking of?”
“Maybe Debbie from work. And your sister’s been texting regularly.”
These were significant steps—Debbie had been Lorraine’s closest colleague at the primary school, Paul’s sister Sarah one of her oldest friends. Both relationships had withered in the aftermath of Olivia’s death, victims of Lorraine’s inability to engage with anyone who’d known her daughter.
“Sarah would love to see you,” Paul said. “She asks about you every time we speak.”
“Maybe next weekend. We could have them over for dinner. Sarah and Tim and the kids.”
Paul smiled, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. “I think that would be wonderful. A step forward.”
Lorraine returned the smile, a moment of genuine connection bridging the growing chasm between them. What she didn’t say—couldn’t say—was that this reintegration into normal social life had been Zara’s suggestion. Or rather, “Olivia’s” suggestion, delivered through Zara during their last session.
“Olivia says you’re isolating yourself too much,” Zara had said. “She wants you to reconnect with friends, with family. She says her Aunt Sarah misses you terribly, and the cousins need your presence in their lives.”
The specific mention of Sarah—whom Lorraine had never discussed during their sessions—had been another “confirmation” of Zara’s genuine abilities. How else could she have known about Paul’s sister, about Olivia’s cousins?
Paul, of course, would have pointed out the obvious explanations: social media connections, obituary mentions, perhaps even search engine investigations into the Winters family. But Lorraine preferred the spiritual explanation. Needed it, even.
At the café later that morning, Jane greeted her with a warm hug. “It’s so good to see you, Lor. Emma said your visit went well. She’s been much brighter since.”
Lorraine nodded, settling into the comfortable chair across from her friend. “It was good for me too. I’ve been…absent. From everything, everyone.”
“Completely understandable. Grief doesn’t follow a timetable. There’s no right way to do it.”
They ordered coffee and pastries, easing into conversation with the familiarity of long friendship. Jane filled her in on neighbourhood news, on Emma’s school progress, on the mundane details of ordinary life that had continued while Lorraine had been suspended in her bubble of grief.
“And how are you, really?” Jane asked eventually, her expression gentle but direct. “Emma mentioned you seemed different. More…present.”
Lorraine hesitated, unsure how much to share. Jane was pragmatic, level-headed—not unlike Paul in her approach to life. But she was also spiritual in her own way, open to possibilities beyond the material world.
“I’ve found something that helps. A way to…to still feel connected to Olivia.”
Jane nodded. “That’s wonderful. Support group? Therapy?”
“Not exactly.” Lorraine took a deep breath. “It’s a medium. Someone who communicates with those who’ve passed over.”
“I see. And you find this comforting?”
“More than comforting,” Lorraine said, warming to the subject now that she’d broached it. “Jane, she knows things. Specific details about Olivia, about our family, that she couldn’t possibly know otherwise. She’s channelling messages directly from Olivia—memories, reassurances, even jokes.”
Jane reached across the table, placing her hand over Lorraine’s. “Lor, you know I’ll support you in whatever brings you peace. But I have to ask—have you considered the possibility that this person is…well, not entirely genuine?”
“Paul said the same thing,” Lorraine said, a defensive edge entering her voice. “But you haven’t experienced it. The specificity of the details, the emotional resonance of the messages. It’s real, Jane. I’m certain of it.”
“Okay,” Jane said, clearly choosing her words with care. “And this medium—what’s her name?”
“Zara. Spiritual Serenity with Zara. She has a huge following online, thousands of testimonials from people who’ve connected with loved ones through her.”
Jane nodded. “And I assume her services aren’t free?”
“Why does everyone immediately focus on the money? Yes, she charges. It’s her profession, her gift. Doctors charge for healing bodies. Why shouldn’t spiritual healers charge for healing souls?”
“That’s a fair point. I just want to make sure you’re being careful. Grief makes us vulnerable, Lor. There are people who exploit that vulnerability.”
“Zara isn’t like that. She’s genuine. Compassionate. She’s helped me more in three weeks than traditional grief counselling ever did.”
Jane squeezed her hand gently. “If it’s helping you, then I’m glad. Just…keep your eyes open, okay? And remember that Paul and Emma and all of us who knew and loved Olivia are here for you too. In the flesh, so to speak.”
The conversation moved on to safer topics, but Lorraine remained distracted, mentally rehearsing all the evidence of Zara’s authenticity, all the specific details she’d revealed that couldn’t be explained away by cold reading or internet research.
Later that day, during her scheduled session with Zara, Lorraine raised the subject of others’ scepticism.
“It’s frustrating. Paul, Jane—even when they see how much this helps me, they still doubt the reality of our connection with Olivia.”
Zara nodded, her expression serene in the soft lighting of her studio. “This is common, Lorraine. Not everyone is ready to acknowledge the reality of continued consciousness. Their doubt comes from fear—fear that if they allow themselves to believe, they might be disappointed. Or worse, that they might have to reconsider everything they think they know about life and death.”
“Exactly!” Lorraine leaned toward her screen. “That’s exactly it. Paul is so rational, so logical about everything. He can’t allow for possibilities beyond his understanding.”
“Olivia is coming through now,” Zara said, her eyes drifting closed. “She says…she says she understands her father’s scepticism. It’s how he processes grief—through control, through frameworks he can understand. But she wants you to know that your belief is enough. You’re her conduit to this realm now.”
Tears welled in Lorraine’s eyes. This felt so right, so true to Olivia’s understanding nature. She had always been perceptive about people’s motivations, even as a child.
“She’s showing me something else,” Zara said. “A financial concern. Are you worried about money, Lorraine?”
The question was unexpected, uncomfortable in its directness. “A little,” Lorraine admitted. “The Premium package is…significant. And I’m still on leave from teaching.”
“Olivia wants you to know that material concerns are temporary. Your connection with her is eternal. She says…she says there’s a savings account. Something specifically for her?”
Lorraine’s breath caught. Olivia’s university fund. They’d been saving since her birth, planning for her higher education. Now it sat untouched, a bitter reminder of a future that would never materialise.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Her university fund.”
“Olivia says this money was always meant for her development, her journey. Now, her journey is spiritual rather than educational. She believes using these resources to maintain your connection is appropriate—a different kind of investment in her future, in your shared path.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing. The money was always for Olivia. This is still for her, in a way.”
“The universe works in beautiful synchronicities. Olivia guided you to that realisation before even expressing it directly. That’s how strong your connection has become.”
After the session ended, Lorraine sat quietly at her desk, considering the implications. Olivia’s university fund contained nearly forty thousand pounds—money they’d diligently saved over sixteen years, planning for a future that no longer existed. Using it to fund her sessions with Zara would solve the immediate financial concerns, would allow her to continue the Premium package indefinitely without impacting their household budget.
Paul would be furious, of course. But the account was in both their names; she had every legal right to access it. And if Olivia herself approved—if this was truly a continuation of their investment in her future, albeit in an unexpected form—then perhaps Paul would eventually understand.
The decision crystallised with surprising ease. Tomorrow, she would transfer funds from Olivia’s university account to their joint current account. Enough to cover several months of Premium sessions, with a buffer for any additional services Zara might offer. Paul would notice eventually, when he checked their financial statements, but by then the transaction would be complete.
That evening, as she prepared dinner—another small step toward normalcy—Lorraine found herself humming softly.
Paul, entering the kitchen, paused. “You’re cooking.”
“Just pasta,” she said, stirring the sauce absently. “Nothing fancy. But I thought…normal routines might be good.”
“It smells great. Mind if I help?”
“You could set the table. Like we used to.”
As they moved around the kitchen, performing the domestic choreography of countless evenings before tragedy had rewritten their lives, Lorraine felt a curious duality.
On one hand, this resumption of ordinary patterns brought genuine comfort. On the other, she was consciously performing normalcy, knowing that beneath the surface she was planning decisions Paul would consider a profound betrayal.
“I called Sarah today,” Paul said as they sat down to eat. “About dinner next weekend. They’re all excited to see you.”
“That’s good,” Lorraine said, twirling pasta around her fork. “I’ve missed the kids. They must have grown so much.”
“Lily’s starting secondary school in September. Can’t believe it.”
Olivia’s cousin, once five years her junior, now moving forward into adolescence while Olivia remained forever sixteen. The thought created a familiar pang, but less sharp than it might have been months ago. Progress, of a sort.
“How was coffee with Jane?”
“Nice. Normal. She sends her love.”
“Did you…talk about your sessions?” The question was carefully neutral, but tension underlined it.
Lorraine met his gaze directly. “Briefly. She has reservations, like you. But she’s supportive of anything that helps me cope.”
“I want to be supportive too. I just…I just worry about where this leads, Lor. The dependency, the financial aspect, the…the false hope.”
“It’s not false.” Lorraine set down her fork. “Why is it so hard for you to accept that consciousness might continue beyond physical death? That Olivia might still exist in some form?”
“Because I need evidence. Real, verifiable evidence. Not coincidences or vague statements or information that could be gleaned from social media.”
“Zara knows things that couldn’t possibly be found online.”
“Like what? Give me a specific example.”
Lorraine thought for a moment. “The reverse strawberry birthmark. My private nickname for it. That was never online, never mentioned to anyone outside our immediate family.”
Paul’s expression softened with sympathy. “Lor, you posted a beach photo three summers ago. You’re wearing a bikini, and the birthmark is visible. Someone even commented on it—’looks like a strawberry birthmark’—and you replied ‘reverse strawberry, actually, as Olivia calls it.’ It’s still on your Instagram.”
Lorraine had completely forgotten that exchange, that photo. But Paul was right—it had happened exactly as he described. She could picture the comment now, recalled typing her response.
“That’s just one example,” she said. “There are dozens of others. Things Zara couldn’t possibly have known.”
“Like what? The broken teapot? You mentioned that in a Facebook post about Olivia’s childhood misadventures for her fourteenth birthday. The butterfly necklace? There are several photos of Olivia wearing it on both your accounts and hers. The Sunday pancakes? A tradition you’ve posted about at least monthly for years.”
Each example landed like another small blow, dismantling the evidential foundation of Lorraine’s belief piece by piece. Had Zara simply mined their social media history, extracting these “private” details to create the illusion of supernatural knowledge?
“You’ve been investigating her,” Lorraine said. “Going through our social media, looking for explanations.”
“I’ve been trying to protect you. from someone who’s exploiting your grief for profit.”
“By undermining the one thing that’s helped me? The one connection to Olivia that gives me comfort?”
“It’s not a real connection, Lor. It’s an expensive illusion. And I’m terrified of what happens when the illusion inevitably breaks.”
Lorraine stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “I don’t want to have this conversation again. You’ve made your position clear. I’ve made my choice.”
“Lorraine—”
“No.” She raised a hand to silence him. “I’m going upstairs. I need some space.”
In their bedroom, Lorraine closed the door firmly and sank onto the edge of the bed, mind racing. Paul’s explanations were rational, plausible—devastating in their simplicity.
Each “evidential” detail she’d clung to, each “proof” of Zara’s genuine abilities, systematically dismantled by the most obvious explanation: Zara had researched her thoroughly before their sessions.
And yet, the comfort Lorraine had found, the sense of continued connection with Olivia, the easing of her most agonising grief—these were real. Whatever Zara’s methods, the results had brought Lorraine back from the edge of an abyss. Could something so fundamentally healing be based entirely on deception?
Her phone buzzed with a notification. A message from Zara.
“Olivia’s energy is very strong tonight. She’s concerned about discord between you and her father. She wants you both to know she loves you equally, but understands your different approaches to grief. If you’d like an emergency session to address this specifically, I’ve opened a slot tomorrow morning at 10 AM. Extra charge applies but may be worthwhile given the emotional urgency I’m sensing.”
Lorraine stared at the message, emotions warring within her. The timing was uncanny—almost as though Zara could sense the argument that had just occurred. Was this further evidence of her genuine abilities? Or simply a calculated guess based on the predictable tensions her involvement would create in a grieving family?
Without fully analysing her decision, Lorraine responded: “I’ll take the emergency session. Thank you for sensing this need.”
Only afterwards did she consider the extra cost—two hundred pounds for an unscheduled consultation, on top of her Premium package fees. Money that would now come from Olivia’s university fund, from the future they’d so carefully planned and saved for.
The realisation brought a wave of vertigo, of disconnection from her former self.
When had she become a person who would drain her dead daughter’s education fund to pay a medium? When had financial caution, rational scepticism, marital trust become secondary to this desperate need for continued connection?
But even as these questions formed, Lorraine found herself mentally preparing for tomorrow’s session, constructing a narrative that would present her side of the argument with Paul in the most favourable light. Already anticipating Zara’s—Olivia’s—validation of her position.
5.
Lorraine waited at her laptop, butterfly necklace in place, Olivia’s journal open beside her as a physical connection to enhance their spiritual communication. But at precisely the scheduled time, instead of Zara’s familiar face appearing on screen, a brief message arrived:
“Technical difficulties with our streaming platform. Session postponed. Will update Premium members shortly.”
Disappointment flooded Lorraine, followed immediately by a sense of anxious agitation. Her sessions with Zara had become the axis around which her existence revolved. Without this anchoring point, she felt adrift, unmoored from the fragile new routine she’d constructed.
She messaged Zara directly through the Premium client portal: “Everything alright? Worried about our connection. When can we reschedule?”
No response came, which was unusual. Zara typically replied quickly to her Premium clients, particularly those like Lorraine who had invested in the highest tier of services. After thirty minutes of refreshing her inbox, Lorraine gave up and wandered downstairs, where Paul sat at the kitchen table with his laptop.
“Session cancelled?
“Technical issues, apparently.” Lorraine filled the kettle, trying to mask her unease. “Should be rescheduled soon.”
Paul nodded, returning his attention to his screen. Over the past two weeks, since their argument, they’d established an uneasy détente. Paul no longer openly criticised her involvement with Zara, and Lorraine tried not to flaunt it before him.
She glanced toward his laptop, curious about what had so thoroughly captured his attention. He was reading an article, his expression troubled. Something about his focused intensity made her pause.
“What are you looking at?”
Paul hesitated, his finger hovering over the trackpad as though considering whether to close the window. “Just a news piece. Nothing important.”
Lorraine moved behind him, catching a glimpse of the headline before he could minimise the browser:
“GRIEF PREDATOR: POPULAR PSYCHIC MEDIUM EXPOSED AS FRAUD TARGETING BEREAVED FAMILIES”
The accompanying image was unmistakably Zara, her serene expression now appearing calculated rather than compassionate in the context of the damning headline.
“What is this?”
Paul sighed, reopening the browser window. “It just broke this morning. I was trying to figure out how to tell you.”
Lorraine pushed him aside, leaning closer to read the article. It was from The Guardian, not some tabloid or fringe publication. The piece detailed a six-month investigation into “Spiritual Serenity with Zara,” revealing what the journalists described as “a sophisticated operation designed to extract maximum financial benefit from vulnerable grieving individuals.”
According to the exposé, Zara employed a team of researchers who systematically mined clients’ social media histories, public records, and online presence before “readings.” They compiled detailed dossiers on potential Premium clients, identifying those with significant financial resources and acute emotional vulnerability—particularly parents who had lost children.
The investigation had uncovered internal documents and testimony from a former employee, revealing scripts for “cold reading” techniques, psychological manipulation strategies, and pricing structures designed to gradually increase financial commitment while fostering dependency.
Most damning of all, the article included transcripts of Zara coaching staff on how to “harvest grief details” from obituaries and social media memorials, specifically instructing them to look for “emotional trigger points” and “exploitable personal connections.”
“This can’t be true,” Lorraine whispered.
The article named specific victims—a father in Manchester who had spent over £30,000 trying to connect with his deceased son; an elderly widow who had remortgaged her home to pay for Zara’s “Eternal Connection” package; a bereaved mother who had alienated her entire family in her desperate belief in Zara’s abilities.
This last example struck uncomfortably close to home.
“Lorraine, I’m so sorry. I know how much this connection meant to you.”
She stepped back from the laptop, shaking her head. “It’s a hit piece. A smear campaign. Zara has many enemies—sceptics, traditional religious institutions, competitors. They’re trying to discredit her because she threatens their monopoly on spiritual comfort.”
The argument sounded rehearsed even to her own ears—and indeed, it was. Zara had frequently warned her Premium clients about “forces aligned against authentic spiritual connection,” priming them to dismiss any criticism or exposure as malicious attacks by threatened establishments.
“The journalist interviewed over forty former clients. They have internal documents, staff testimonies, bank records showing how she targeted vulnerable people. It’s comprehensive, Lor.”
“It’s a coordinated attack. They’ve fabricated evidence, manipulated disgruntled employees, all to destroy someone who’s genuinely helping people.”
“Is that what you really believe? Or what you need to believe to maintain this connection with Olivia?”
The question hit too close to the truth. Lorraine turned away, unable to meet his gaze. “You’ve never supported this. You’ve been looking for ways to discredit Zara from the beginning. You’re probably glad this happened.”
“Glad?” Paul’s voice cracked. “Glad that someone has been manipulating my wife’s deepest grief for profit? Glad that you’ve been emotionally exploited during the most vulnerable period of your life? How could I possibly be glad about that?”
Lorraine grabbed her phone from the counter, checking again for any message from Zara.
Nothing.
“She’ll explain,” Lorraine said, more to herself than to Paul. “There’ll be a statement, a rebuttal. This will all be cleared up.”
“And if it’s not? If the evidence is irrefutable? What then, Lor?”
Lorraine had no answer. The possibility that Zara might be exactly what the article described—a calculated fraud preying on grief—was too devastating to contemplate. It would mean that the comfort she’d found, the connection she’d felt with Olivia, the hope that had sustained her these past months, was built entirely on lies.
“I need some air,” she said abruptly, grabbing her coat from the back of a chair.
“Lorraine—”
“Don’t.” She held up a hand. “I can’t talk about this right now. I need to process.”
Outside, autumn had painted the neighbourhood in shades of amber and crimson. Lorraine walked without destination, her mind racing. The rational part of her brain—the part she’d suppressed to maintain her belief in Zara’s abilities—was now insistently presenting evidence she’d previously ignored.
The “technical difficulties” cancelling today’s session, conveniently coinciding with the breaking scandal. The way Zara had gradually escalated financial commitment, using “Olivia’s” approval to validate accessing the university fund. The specific details in readings that, as Paul had pointed out, could all be traced to public social media posts.
And yet, and yet…
The comfort had been real. The sense of connection, of continued relationship with Olivia, had pulled Lorraine back from the brink of consuming grief. Even if the foundation was false, the emotional impact had been genuine.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Heart leaping, she checked the screen, hoping for Zara’s explanation. Instead, she found a message from Jane:
“Just saw the news about Zara. Are you okay? Call me if you need to talk.”
So the story was spreading. How many others had seen it? Emma? Sarah? The colleagues at school she’d recently reconnected with? How many were now pitying her, seeing her as a victim, a fool?
She continued walking, picking up pace as though she could physically outrun the implications.
After nearly an hour, she found herself in the small park where she’d often taken Olivia as a child. The playground where her daughter had learned to swing, the pond where they’d fed ducks, the bench where they’d shared ice creams on summer days.
Lorraine sat on that bench now, the memories washing over her. Real memories, not interpretations fed to her by a stranger with financial motives. Her own authentic connection to her daughter, not a manufactured simulation.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, a notification from Zara’s official accounts:
“IMPORTANT MESSAGE TO OUR SPIRITUAL FAMILY: In light of recent malicious and false allegations, Spiritual Serenity with Zara will be temporarily suspending services while we prepare our legal response. We categorically deny all accusations and look forward to clearing our name. Premium members will receive further communication regarding service continuity. Stand strong in your truth. Love and light.”
The message was corporate, defensive, entirely lacking the warm intimacy of Zara’s usual communications. No specific refutations, no evidence countering the allegations. Just blanket denial and vague promises.
Would an authentic psychic medium with genuine abilities need to “prepare a legal response”? Wouldn’t the truth of her gifts be self-evident, demonstrable, beyond legal quibbling?
As Lorraine sat grappling with these uncomfortable questions, her phone rang. Paul.
“There’s something you need to see. The story’s developing. More evidence has emerged.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“A staff member has released client files. Dozens of them, showing how they researched people before readings. Lorraine…yours is among them.”
Her breath caught. “What does it say?”
“I think you should come home and see for yourself. It’s…detailed.”
Twenty minutes later, Lorraine sat beside Paul at their kitchen table, staring at the screen in numb disbelief. The document displayed was clearly an internal research file, cataloguing every exploitable detail of her grief:
CLIENT: Lorraine Winters (Premium Target)
DECEASED: Olivia Winters (Daughter, 16)
CAUSE OF DEATH: Drowning (School swimming trip)
GRIEF ASSESSMENT: Acute, isolated, financially secure
EXPLOITABLE DETAILS: See attached social media analysis and timeline
POTENTIAL REVENUE: Estimated £15,000-£25,000 (Premium package, special sessions, extended services)
APPROACH STRATEGY: Water imagery, educational future lost, mother-daughter emotional triggers
The document continued with a methodical inventory of Lorraine’s social media history—posts about Olivia, family photos, comments, interactions—all annotated with notes on how these details could be presented as “psychic revelations” during readings.
Every specific “message from Olivia” that had seemed so convincingly evidential was there in the research: the butterfly necklace, the broken teapot, the “reverse strawberry” birthmark, Sunday morning pancakes, even Emma’s recent visit. All harvested from public posts, all catalogued for maximum emotional impact when fed back to Lorraine as supernatural communication.
Most disturbing was a psychological profile identifying her as “highly vulnerable to financial escalation” due to her “desperate need for continued connection” and “financial resources earmarked for daughter’s future.”
They had targeted Olivia’s university fund deliberately, strategically. Had manipulated Lorraine’s most sacred grief with cold calculation.
“I’m so sorry,” Paul said, his hand covering hers. “I can’t imagine how painful this must be.”
Lorraine sat motionless, the evidence before her undeniable yet still somehow unbelievable. The depth of the deception, the methodical exploitation of her most vulnerable state, the precise targeting of her emotional and financial pressure points—it was breathtakingly cruel.
“All of it,” she whispered. “All of it was fake.”
“The comfort you felt was real. The sense of connection, the emotional relief—those were genuine experiences, even if they were based on manipulation.”
Lorraine pulled her hand away. “Don’t. Don’t try to salvage something from this…this obscenity.”
She stood, moving to the window, staring unseeing at the garden beyond. The butterfly necklace felt suddenly heavy against her throat, a reminder of her gullibility rather than a connection to Olivia. She unclasped it, letting it dangle from her fingers.
“I believed her,” Lorraine said, her voice hollow. “I chose her over you, over rational thought, over everything I used to value. I spent thousands of pounds from Olivia’s university fund on a fraud. What does that say about me?”
“It says you were grieving. It says you would do anything to maintain a connection with our daughter. There’s no shame in that.”
But shame was exactly what Lorraine felt—cascading waves of it, threatening to drown her as surely as the water had claimed Olivia. Shame at her gullibility, her willingness to believe, her reckless spending, her treatment of Paul when he’d tried to warn her.
She turned back to him, tears streaming down her face. “I don’t know how to process this. I don’t know where to go from here.”
Paul approached, opening his arms in silent invitation.
After a moment’s hesitation, Lorraine stepped into his embrace, allowing herself to be held as sobs wracked her body.
“We process it together,” he murmured against her hair. “One day at a time. Just like before.”
But as Lorraine clung to her husband, a disturbing thought emerged through her grief: without Zara’s “connection” to Olivia, she was back where she’d started. Alone with her loss, with no bridge to her daughter, no comfort beyond the ordinary human consolations that had proven insufficient before.
And despite everything—despite the undeniable evidence of fraud, the calculated exploitation, the mercenary targeting of her vulnerability—part of her still craved that comfort, that connection, that illusion of continued relationship.
What did that say about her?
Three days after the exposé broke, Lorraine sat alone in Olivia’s bedroom, surrounded by the preserved artifacts of her daughter’s interrupted life.
The university fund had been partially restored—Zara’s company, facing multiple lawsuits and potential criminal charges, had begun issuing refunds to avoid further legal consequences. But the emotional damage couldn’t be so easily rectified.
The “Spiritual Serenity” website had disappeared, Zara’s social media accounts suddenly private. The vibrant online community of believers had fractured—some members accepting the devastating truth, others doubling down on their belief, constructing elaborate conspiracy theories to explain away the evidence.
Lorraine existed somewhere between these poles—intellectually accepting the fraud, emotionally unable to fully relinquish the comfort it had provided.
Her phone pinged with a notification from a private messaging app she’d downloaded at Zara’s suggestion months earlier, supposedly to ensure “secure spiritual communication.” She hadn’t expected to receive any further contact through this channel, given the public implosion of Zara’s empire.
The message was brief: “For select clients only. Private sessions continuing through secure channels. Usual rates apply. Spiritual truth persists despite worldly interference.”
Lorraine stared at the screen, conflict raging within her. The rational part of her brain screamed warnings—this was the desperate action of a fraud attempting to salvage income streams while under public scrutiny. But another part, the part that had become dependent on these “connections” with Olivia, whispered seductive possibilities.
What if, despite everything, there was still some truth to it? What if, among the calculated deceptions, Zara had occasionally channelled genuine messages? What if Lorraine cut herself off from the one remaining link to Olivia, however tenuous?
She typed a response before fully processing her decision: “When can we schedule?”
