Mirena walks into the fog that blurs the outlines of empty streets into a frail watercolour. The smudged foliage like drying paint on canvas. With her sight dulled and sounds muted, she feels her way through the veil of haze like a ghost in the land of eternal sleep. She quickens her pace — every step rebels against the freeze frame shot of space — and focuses on the click of her heels to track the drift of time.

A hollow snap resounds from behind. She dares not turn. It’s a game she played as a kid. You look — you lose. She remembers the cool touch of her flashlight, the battered notches of its solid handle her little fingers gripped like a magic wand and pointed, shaking, at a half-open wardrobe door, behind which, in the dark, before the blinking gleam spotted familiar forms, Narnia beckoned.

While a part of her craved seeing it through the shaggy lines of hoodies and jumpers, another was too afraid. That part always won and kept her away from the evening fogs and morning mists and shocking spears of lost beliefs. In the thick shapeless smoke, her flashlight was powerless, and fauns wandered through winter forests with parcels and umbrella.

The sound recurs. A muffled knock echoes her steps. She tastes iron in her mouth as she gnaws on the inside of her cheek, her heart pounding her ribcage with allegro thuds. The beads of sweat coating her chest under the layers of wool and cashmere grow icy. Narnia is childish folly. In the fog, fauns carry knives, not parcels. People are getting lost all the time, but she is a sensible, grown-up woman, and this is not some bloody wardrobe.

She turns the corner and bumps into a rock-hard torso with twisted twigs, grabbing at her shoulders. The misshapen head leans forward, reeking of coffee and tobacco, as she gasps for a scream that jams on its way.

“Gotcha!” the faun grins while she gapes back at him, then punts. The fog snatches ragged clouds from her mouth and whiffs them away. “What’s up? I startled you?”

Mirena pushes the man off. “Jesus, Aidan, you beast! Where did you get this ugly hat?”

“My grandad’s,” he says, beaming, and shoves his hands into the jacket pockets. “You look half dead. You okay?” He points at her with a pocketed fist.

Mirena brushes back a hair strand stuck to her lips. “Yeah, fine. Let’s go,” she says and takes him by the elbow.

As they cross the street, the icy sweat creeps back up her spine. Aidan’s arm is cool and solid, the sleek leather sleeve gives Mirena a sense of flashlight safety. She casts a furtive glance behind her and snatches a glimpse of fleeting shadow, dissolving behind the wall of white smoke.