what had begun as a party for children had turned into a celebration for adults, the younger crowd dropping off midday for naps, and awaking with a renewed energy which died out by evening. gatherings felt different with no alcohol on the menu, less tense, with no current of concern that andy's mouth would catch up with his mind and say more than he the guests could tolerate.

to her credit, bee had remained awake the longest, waving farewells to her relatives as they departed, and outlasting a cranky luca, who was put to bed just inside the house, within both eye and earshot should he wake from his slumber. visibly exhausted but fighting it, she had finally worn herself out on andy's chest, resisting any attempts to be moved, and they had finally collectively given up on relocating her until the last of the revelers had said their goodbyes.

the only gift that had yet to be presented was unwrapped, sat on top of the white chest of drawers in bee's bedroom, resting alongside the other decor meant not to be touched. as he entered the room, he turned to kiss the top of aubrey's head, smoothing his hand over her wispy dark blonde hair. she stirred, snuggling more fully into his shoulder, her bright eyes -- harlowe's eyes -- blinking sleepily up at him. he crossed to the chair beside her bed, pausing to pick up his gift to her as he passed.

it was fitting, he thought, that he should give her this whilst sat in something belonging to his other grandmother. "look, petal," he said, placing the object on his knee. "this was ouma caroline's when your auntie dav was little and --" and someone would be angry when they found it was missing. if they found it was missing.

the music box had been where he remembered: on a desk in one of the spare rooms, covered in dust. the bronze of the piano's body had discoloured with age, as had the white of the keys, but after a run against his shirtsleeve, the marble top looked as it had when he was young, when he had first heard the familiar tune pour out of the lid.

ghosts, he liked to call them: the only ones that were real; memories that came back, refusing to be forgotten. jy is my sonskyn, my enigste sonskyn.

for what had been the first time he could remember, she hadn't interrupted him, hadn't shouted or snatched it from his hands. don't let her see you playing with that his mother had warned. it was my sister's. she had pointed to a gold-framed drawing of a baby, no more than eight or nine months old, with a name written in calligraphic ink. put it away and go and play with your cousins.

"it plays our song," he said, lifting the top gently, somewhat afraid that it might have stopped working in the time since they'd left brakpan. bee attempted to lift her head, giving up with a lazy dada, but she smiled, closing her eyes as the tinny tune rang hauntingly.