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queue who had witnessed our exchange started sniggering. I turned away feeling worthless and angry at myself. Why do I feel so protective of her? I brought that on myself .
    I resumed my waiting.
     
    *
     
    Later that evening, I lay in bed, staring at the photograph absently, whilst the soft thud of TV bass floated up from downstairs. The rest of my family were watching some feel good Steve Martin film on Sky. They’d invited me to join, but after the misery of the day and the headache I still couldn’t shake, all I wanted was to be alone. So I’d explained that I had coursework to finish and instead wasted a bit of time on the pc.
    Dad’s picture was worn from all the time it had spent in my hands. The edges were lined with creases, collected over time like wrinkles. I’d discovered it about seven years ago in the attic of our first house, whilst rooting around for something or other. I’d spotted it wedged between a floorboard and the insulation in the far corner. As soon as I’d picked it up, I knew it was of my real father. Something in his eyes had seemed familiar to me - seemed warm. In the picture, Dad was sitting on a set of stone steps in a grand garden. His wavy brown hair hung around his strong face and his emerald eyes shone out at the camera. He was cradling a baby in his arms. Swaddled in blue, its tiny pink hand stretched up and cupped his chin. Dad looked happy. On the back, someone had written:
    Peter and Alexander aged 1. August 1995.
    Two months after the date on the photo, he’d popped out to get a newspaper. A speeding car had ensured that he never made it home again. They never caught the driver.
    Mum was a closed book when it came to the subject of my real dad. She got misty eyed and left the room if I ever brought him up. Beyond the details of his death, all I knew for sure was that his full name had been Peter Eden. A surname Mum had insisted I keep even after she became Mrs Wilson.
    I kept the picture a secret. Somehow I knew that Mum would throw it away if she found it - just like she must have done with all of the other memories. I mean, who gets married and has no mementos?
    “Night Dad,” I said.
    Tucking the picture back under the mattress, I switched off the bedside lamp. Eyes still wide, I watched the shadows dance in the pale moonlight that shone through a crack in the curtains. As time passed, my mind wandered to Gabriella. So she had planned to meet me after all , I thought, a wide smile creeping across my face. Then I thought about what Lucy and Rita had said. Dull anger began to burn in my stomach over their comments. I had no idea why I was so protective over the new girl. After all, I’d only known her for one day. It seemed clear that someone as incredible as her didn’t deserve to be the subject of ridicule by people as mediocre as Lucy and Rita. I’d been right though; something was different about Gabriella. To me she seemed totally unlike everyone else...unique somehow.A divine jigsaw piece forced to fit into the wrong, worn out puzzle.
    I was still imagining her and what it would be like to kiss those soft red lips, when my eyes began to grow heavy, and I felt the contented waves of sleep wash over me.
     
    I was standing in a graveyard. The moon was full; its milky light cast an eerie glow on the area. A damp fog hung low and thick in the air. There was no sound at all. No animals or insects. Not even the rustlings of the nearby trees. Everything was deathly still. It felt wrong.
    All around me were rows of tombstones. They looked to have been there centuries - their loving messages lost to the ravages of time. In the middle of it all stood a decaying crypt. Its aging stone walls were fronted by a large wooden door that hung on thick iron hinges. There was no handle. Above, the word MOONSTELLA had been carved deep into the stone.
    I felt a cloying fear in my throat. The crypt didn’t look like the resting place of a dearly departed. It looked like it was hiding