It was meant to be a small gathering. That's what the invitation promised in its neat silver handwriting. Just a few friends. Nothing dramatic. Not a party, as such, just a little get together.

Even then, I wasn't sure I believed it. Mara was never one to opt for small in anything. I'd seen the photos of her last fling...

The house sat at the end of a cul‑de‑sac like it had been misplaced. It was too small for the street and too narrow for its height. It was a design anomaly, built deliberately by the hostess's late husband, an architect of questionable taste.

Warm light leaked from the windows, and the music inside pulsed like a heartbeat trying to convince itself it was alive.

I arrived late, as usual. I was told often I'd be late for my own funeral, to which I'd reply I bloody well hoped so. The moment I stepped through the door, the air tightened around me, holding me captive in a social environment I was never prepared for.

"Glad you made it," Mara said, appearing in a dress the colour of a fading bruise.

Her smile was wide, but her eyes showed she thought I'd make some awkward excuse or other. I had a list of them, and rotated randomly through them, when anxiety put its arm around me and persuaded me to stay home. Keep the curtains closed. Enjoy just being me.

I told her I wouldn't miss it. A lie, but a polite one.

She pressed a drink into my hand and drifted away, her work done. The guests were scattered through the rooms, laughing too loudly, smiling too hard. Fairy lights sagged across the ceiling, flickering like they were losing an argument with the wiring, and wondering why they'd been invited in the first place.

I tried to blend in. I really did. But the whole thing felt staged, as if everyone else had been given a script and I'd turned up with the wrong lines. The first crack came when the music stopped mid‑chorus. Conversations stuttered. Heads turned. The fairy lights blinked twice, then steadied, deciding their time had come to be save the day.

"Fuse," someone said, without conviction.

Before anyone could test the theory, the front door slammed, hard enough to shake the picture frames. Had I left it open? I didn't think so. A few guests hurried over, tugging at the handle. It didn't move.

"Swollen wood," someone suggested, again, lacking conviction but grinning at the innuendo..

The night was warm and dry, and the door had opened without issue for me. I drifted toward the hallway, but Mara appeared again, blocking me with a smile that had too many, too white teeth. A bonus from her visit to Turkey earlier in the year, no doubt.

"Don't worry about the door," she said. "It does that."

I didn't believe her. She knew I didn't believe her. Her smile held its shape like something pinned in place. A tail on a donkey's arse.

Back in the living room, the music resumed. It was slower now, older, like it had been dredged up from someone's attic and dust coated each note. People tried to talk again, but their voices were softer, as if the house might be listening.

That's when I noticed the coat.

A coat draped over the sofa. A half‑finished drink on the windowsill. Shoes tucked neatly under a chair.

"Who's that belong to?" I asked.

The group nearest me stared at the items as if seeing them for the first time.

"I... don't know," one said.

"Was someone wearing that earlier?" another asked.

A third shook their head.

"I don't think so."

The coat was warm when I lifted it. It was familiar.

"Maybe Theo's," I said.

"Who's Theo?" someone asked.

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. The name evaporated. The familiarity went with it.

"I don't know," I admitted.

The lights flickered.

A woman near the staircase gasped.

"Where's Daniel?"

"Who?" someone replied.

"Daniel! He was talking to me about..." She stopped. Her face went slack, apart from her eyebrow raising higher than the tattoo it was should have been able to. "I can't remember."

A ripple passed through the room. It wasn't panic, not yet, but it had the flavour of it. If we licked our lips, we'd be able to taste it. People pulled out their phones. Contacts were missing. Photos had gaps. Messages ended mid‑thread. I watched their expressions change as they realised the same thing I did.

We weren't losing people. We were losing the memory of them.

Mara appeared again, pale now.

"Stay together," she said. "Please. It's worse when we're apart."

"What is?" I asked.

She opened her mouth to answer, but the lights going out stopped her.

Screams. Bodies pushing past me. A hand grabbed my arm, then vanished. The music warped into a low, drowning moan. I stumbled through the dark, reaching for anything solid. Anyone solid.

When the lights returned, the room was emptier than I remembered, but I couldn't think why. The room felt like it had fewer corners. Less places to hide, though why would I need to?

"Mara?" I called.

Silence.

I tried to picture her face. Her dress. Her voice.

I couldn't.

I moved through the house, calling out names I couldn't hold onto long enough to finish. They were like half spoken promises, made lies before they'd been fully verbalised. Each room felt emptier than the last, as if the walls themselves were forgetting how to be walls.

By the time I reached the hallway mirror, I was alone.

Completely.

Had someone else been there with me?

I stared at my reflection. Or what I assumed was my reflection. The face looking back didn't look right. The eyes were unfamiliar. The mouth seemed borrowed. I lifted a hand. The reflection followed, but a fraction too late.

"What's my name?" I whispered.

The reflection didn't answer, though its mouth moved.

I tried again, louder.

"What's my name?"

Something slipped inside my head. A soft shift of existence. The lights failed again and, when they flickered back on, the face in the mirror was still there.

But I had no idea who it belonged to.