Transmission 019 // “The Weight of Water”
Amelia didn’t want to go inside.
She stood outside the gate on Sycamore Lane, rain tapping against her hood, and told herself she was just catching her breath. Just letting the bus ride settle. Just giving herself a minute before she had to face the house, the silence, the weight of what Helpmann had said.
The front door had turned almost black in the rain. The lights were all out upstairs. A single lamp glowed in the hallway. That meant Matthew was still at work.
Good. She could do with the quiet.
She pushed through the gate and walked up the path, each step breaking water, her sneakers squelching against stone.
Inside, she took off her coat, trying her best not to drip on the tiles. She kicked off her sneakers and peeled off damp socks. As she padded to the kitchen, her feet left shapes on the floor. She ran her fingers back through her hair—wet at the ends, cold against her neck.
The kitchen was dark, the faint green glow of the clock on the oven the only light. She flipped on the downlighter above the counter—soft, warm light that made the shadows in the rest of the room stretch taller. She opened a cupboard, fumbling through tins and boxes. Her hand hovered, then moved to the back corner where Laura kept the emergency supplies. She pulled out a battered box and turned it in her hand.
Chamomile tea.
…just what you need when the sleep won't come, sweetie.
Amelia decided that, tonight, she’d find out if that was true. She dropped a teabag into a mug and filled the kettle. The base lit up, and the low rumble of boiling water filled the silence, wrapping around her like a cocoon.
As she poured, she caught the faintest tremor in her hand. She'd first felt it in Helpmann's office. It hadn't left—she wasn't sure it ever would. She carried the mug to the worn armchair by the window and curled into it, tucking her legs beneath her. Outside, the rain turned the tall silhouettes of the sycamores into shifting smudges of shadow.
As she took another sip, she watched the raindrops push down the pane. Each one followed some invisible logic she couldn't see. She wondered what forces pressed against them, and whether their paths were already decided before they even touched the glass.
Helpmann’s words spun round in her mind. He had spoken of her parents with a familiarity that felt intrusive, as if he had trulyknown them. A thought cut deep: perhaps he remembered them better than she did. It wasn't just the loss that stung. It was the feeling that she might not have really known them at all.
She closed her eyes and felt the heat of the mug through her hands. She could remember her mother's quiet concentration, the furrow of her brow when she was deep in thought. Her laughter—rare, but radiant. Her father, quiet and calm at the end of the day, reading a book to her while perched at the end of her bed. But the memories felt fragile now, their edges softened and blurred by time.
She pushed deeper, searching for something solid. But the details slipped through her fingers. She could remember the fear. The darkness. The silence of the closet. That had only grown sharper and more suffocating with time. But the things that she wanted to feel—their voices, their presence, the weight of her father's hand on her shoulder, the sound of her mother calling her name? They felt distant now, like they might disappear over the horizon. Frustration curled in her gut. She wanted to scream. Instead, she gripped the mug tighter.
Helpmann had called her parents brilliant—visionaries. Were his words an invitation to reclaim their memory? Or a warning to leave it alone? She couldn't tell.
Maybe that was the point.
Her gaze drifted back to the window. The rain was pushing harder, streaking down in frantic, tangled lines. Somewhere out there was the truth. And for the first time, the thought of finding it didn't fill her with hope. It filled her with quiet dread.
"Evie, lights up."
Laura's voice came from the stairs. The bulbs in the ceiling brightened almost instantly, washing out the shadows. Amelia blinked.
"Hey, sweetie." Laura stepped into the room, robe tied loosely around her waist, slippers padding softly against the carpet. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun. "You okay? You look like you’re a million miles away."
Amelia straightened slightly, wiping at her eyes before Laura could see.
"I guess I was, yeah."
Laura crossed the room and perched on the arm of the chair.
"Do you want to talk?"
"Sure," Amelia replied unconvincingly.
They started small—Laura asked about Marv, about school. Amelia answered in short, careful sentences. Laura didn't push. She let the conversation grow naturally, filling the spaces where Amelia's words faltered, never demanding more than she was willing to give. And slowly—almost imperceptibly—the tension began to lift.
Amelia stared down into her tea, watching the ripples.
"I… do still think about them," she admitted. "A lot."
Laura's expression softened.
"Of course you do," she said softly. "They were your parents, Amelia. Your whole world. It's okay to miss them. That doesn't take anything away from what you have now."
Amelia exhaled slowly, brow furrowing.
"It's not just that I miss them. It's… I don't remember enough. And the memories I do have feel unfinished. Like I'm holding pieces of a puzzle, but I don't even know what picture they’re supposed to make"
Laura's expression shifted, something tightening in her face.
"It's okay to feel that way. I get like that too. Not just with what happened to you, but everything that came after. The adoption. All of it."
Amelia looked up, surprised.
Laura met her gaze, something raw in her eyes.
"I always wanted to be a mother. Your Dad and I tried for years, but it just didn't happen." She hesitated, fingers tracing the arm of the chair. "And then we got the call about you."
A faint smile touched her lips.
"As soon as I saw you, I knew."
Amelia’s hands clenched in her lap.
"And… Dad?"
Laura's smile faltered. She exhaled softly.
“Your Dad had his doubts at first. Most men do. Not about you though, sweetheart—never about you. I think he was just worried about whether we were ready to be parents. Whether it would change us." She reached across and squeezed Amelia's hand. "But he knew how much it meant to me."
Amelia nodded slowly.
"He's not the most emotional person—you know that,” Laura continued, her voice gentler now. “But he works hard for us, and he makes sure we have everything we could possibly need. That's his way of showing he cares. You two don't always see eye to eye, I know that. But he loves you, Amelia."
A pause.
"We both do."
The lump in Amelia's throat was impossible to ignore.
"I know," she replied, her eyes stinging at the edges.
Laura blinked, pulling herself back from somewhere distant. "Hey, listen. The past is complicated. Messy. Sometimes it's not what you hoped. But it's yours. It's worth exploring.”
Amelia’s grip tightened on the mug. She wanted to believe that. She wasn’t sure she did.
Laura’s hand reached out for hers. “Whatever you find, we’ll deal with it together. You have Dad. You have me. And you have Marv—he may be from a different planet to most of us, but I'm pretty sure he'd follow you anywhere.”
Amelia let out a small smile.
"Thanks, Mom."
Laura squeezed her hand one more time, then stood, stretching.
“And, like I told you, chamomile tea fixes almost everything. The rest?… well, that's what we're here for."
The front door opened and the rain got louder. The moment fractured, like a glass slipping from someone’s fingers.
Amelia could hear Matthew stepping into the hallway. After he hung his coat in the usual place, he stepped into to the room, shook his head and took off his glasses, which had begun to steam up.
"Hi, girls. Some night, eh?”
He set his briefcase by the door and headed toward the kitchen without waiting for a reply. Amelia glanced over to Laura, who offered her a small smile. But her eyes lingered on Matthew's retreating figure, for what felt like a fraction of a second too long.
Amelia suddenly felt exhaustion pressing down on her. She shifted her mug between her hands, searching for a polite exit.
“I’m getting tired. I think I’ll head up,” she said softly
Laura’s eyes flicked back to her. She nodded.
“Okay. Me too. Anyway, remember what I said. Goodnight, sweetie.”
* * *
The only light in the bedroom was the soft glow of a streetlamp filtering through the curtains. Amelia dropped her bag by the desk and sank onto her bed.
The day had been a challenge. A crucible. But, she finally had something real.
A starting point.
Greenhaven University. Environmental Sciences Department.
Her fingers curled into the sheets. Outside, the rain sounded like it was finally easing off. It whispered against the glass, soft and steady. Something stirred inside her—small, uneasy, but real. Not comfort. Not warmth. A flicker of resolve. Sharp at the edges. Growing.
She tipped her head back onto the pillow. Her breath slowed. The ache, the questions, the fragments—they didn't fade. But, for now, they wove into the dreams that pulled her down into the dark.
