Ages ago — last year, maybe — you did something small but mean. You told a couple of people that a girl called Ellie still slept with a nightlight, something she'd told you in private. People laughed. Ellie found out it came from you and just went quiet. You never said sorry. Life moved on. Except it didn't, quite. Every now and then you think about it and feel a little sick. Nobody else seems to remember. There's no trouble coming, no teacher involved, nothing forcing your hand. Just a thing you did, sitting in you, that you've never made right.