13th of May

The photo was tucked in the back of her school library copy of Picnic at Hanging Rock.

It slipped out when Maddie opened to Chapter Eight — a glossy, curling Polaroid with edges the colour of nicotine. She might’ve left it there, except for the way the light caught one detail.

A bonfire. A group of teenagers. And one of them — a girl on the far left — looked exactly like her.

Same dark eyes. Same knot of hair. Same small scar on the chin she got in Year Seven falling off a scooter.

Maddie turned it over.

On the back, written in blue pen: Maddie – 13th May. Never forget.

Her skin prickled.

That was her name. And her birthday.

She stood frozen in the silent aisle, the photo trembling slightly between her fingers.

It couldn’t be her. Someone was messing around. Some AI thing, maybe — kids loved faking vintage now.

But the photo didn’t look digital. The light was too grainy, the flash too faded. Someone’s jacket caught the curl of the fire; another person was mid-laugh, blurred.

She slipped it into her hoodie pocket and looked around.

The book didn’t have a checkout slip, not even a barcode sticker.

At the desk, Ms. Hart, the librarian, was typing in that slow, patient way adults did when you interrupted their thoughts.

“Hey,” Maddie said. “Who’s been reading Picnic at Hanging Rock?”

Ms. Hart blinked. “That’s not on the shelves anymore.”

“I found it upstairs. In the stack near History.”

“Impossible,” Ms. Hart said. “We haven’t had that copy for years.”

Maddie held it up. “Then what’s this?”

Ms. Hart frowned, then forced a smile. “Guess I’ll update the catalogue, won’t I?”

That night, Maddie sat on her bedroom floor with the Polaroid under her desk lamp.

She scanned each face. There were eight teens in the photo, huddled around the bonfire, red light licking their cheeks. Solo cups. Phones. Someone mid-dance.

All strangers — except the girl who wasn’t.

Her. And not her.

The clothes were wrong: faded denim, a ribbed tank, a pendant she’d never owned. But the half-smile looked like something she’d seen in her own reflection — that unguarded second before she noticed herself in glass.

Behind them: bushland. Thick, dark, with pinpricks of ember light floating between trunks.

She turned the photo sideways. The girl’s eyes caught the flash. Pale. Alive.

The back read the same: Maddie – 13th May. Never forget.

Her birthday. Two years ago.

She’d turned fifteen that night. Her dad had been at work. It had rained nonstop — she’d watched it streak down her window while scrolling through other people’s parties on her phone.

She checked weather history online. 13th May, two years ago. Clear skies.

Her scalp tingled.

The next day, she showed the photo to her best friend, Cara, between bites of canteen garlic bread.

“Okay,” Cara said slowly. “That’s freaky. That’s literally your face.”

“But it’s not me,” Maddie said.

Cara held it up, squinting. “Same chin scar. Same everything. What’s that around her wrist?”

Maddie leaned closer. The reflection of the flash distorted it — maybe a bracelet, maybe a thin band of rope.

“Could be a prank,” Cara said. “Or a filter. There’s an app that can put your face in old photos.”

“This isn’t digital.”

Cara looked at her. “Then you’ve got a clone.”

“I don’t.”

Cara grinned. “Well, not anymore.”

Maddie smiled weakly, but her stomach twisted.

That night she slid the Polaroid under her pillow.

She dreamed of the bonfire — the crackle, the smoke, and the faint sound of laughter. The kind that didn’t sound happy.

By the next morning, the photo had become a knot in her thoughts.

She asked around at school. Someone remembered a guy named Joel who used to throw bush parties out past the quarry. Graduated two years ago.

She found him on Instagram. His feed was full of sunsets and surfboards.

Maddie sent a DM with the photo attached:

Hey — I found this in a library book. Do you remember this party?

He read it.

Then his account disappeared.

Her dad frowned when she showed him the photo.

“Thought you didn’t like parties.”

“I don’t.”

“Then what’s this?”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

He looked at the girl. “Weird coincidence. You sure someone’s not messing with you?”

“Would they know my birthday?”

He shrugged. “Maybe you posted it once.”

Later, she found the Polaroid in the kitchen bin, coffee-stained and crumpled.

After that, she started digging properly.

The school archives kept old Yearbooks. Maddie stayed late, flipping through yellowed pages until the lights buzzed overhead.

There — two faces from the Polaroid.

One girl, Kelsey Moorcroft, Year Eleven. “Transferred schools.” Another, a boy with a tie-dye hoodie and a peace sign tattoo. Not listed anywhere.

She googled their names. Nothing. Then she tried a local true-crime forum.

Search: Kelsey Moorcroft Sapphire Hills 13th May

One thread.

Disappearance Rumors – May 13 Bonfire Party, Sapphire Hills Posted by @AshLurker, two years ago.

Anyone remember the bush party where that girl vanished? There was police tape. Flyers next day. Now everyone acts like it didn’t happen. Can’t find records. Anyone got screenshots?

(No replies.)

The post was timestamped 3:07 a.m.

Maddie read it twice, her pulse matching the flicker of the library lights.

That night, she caught her reflection lagging. Not metaphorically. The bathroom mirror was fogged from the shower. She wiped it clear — and saw herself standing, towel wrapped, skin steaming. Except in the reflection, her double was facing slightly to the side. Not copying her movements. Just… waiting. Behind it, for a breathless second, she saw the faint orange flicker of firelight. She blinked. “Who’s there?” Gone.

Sleep stopped coming.

She started seeing the girl in flashes — in windows, in the corner of a blank phone screen, in the reflection of her biology lab sink.

Sometimes, she’d look down at her hands and they’d look wrong, like someone else’s posture had borrowed them.

Cara noticed. “You look like you haven’t slept in a month.”

Maddie wanted to tell her everything. She didn’t. She just said, “Ever feel like you’re catching up with yourself?”

Cara snorted. “All the time. It’s called burnout.”

Maddie smiled. But inside, something pressed cold against her ribs.

She went back to the bush.

Told no one.

It took nearly an hour to find the clearing — half-hidden by new growth, the trees thick and tall.

Ash still marked the centre, faint and circular, like a burnt halo. She crouched down. The dirt smelled faintly of smoke.

She found melted wax, shards of glass, the stub of a candle half-buried in soil.

She held up the photo.

The clearing looked the same.

A gust of wind whispered through, except the air had been still all morning.

Maddie turned in a slow circle. “I’m not her,” she said aloud. “I’m still here.”

Silence.

Then, so faint she almost missed it — a whisper.

Her name.

Not from the trees. From behind her ribs.

She dropped the photo into the ashes and buried it with her hand.

For the first time in days, she felt air fill her properly. The sky above seemed a shade lighter.

She walked home, dust on her shoes, the photo’s imprint still ghosting her palm.

When she reached her mirror, she looked.

No flicker. No glitch. Just Maddie.

For the first time, she believed it.

Weeks passed.

The book disappeared from the library again. Ms. Hart swore she’d never seen it.

Maddie deleted the screenshots, blocked the true crime forum, tried to forget the sound of fire.

But sometimes, walking home after dark, she smells smoke on the wind — faint and sweet, like wood and memory.

And every so often, when the clouds turn that bruised, dusty pink before storm weather, she swears she sees light flickering between the trees beyond the oval.

She tells herself it’s nothing.

But sometimes — when the wind dies, and the air feels too still — she hears laughter.

Faint. Familiar.

And it sounds just like hers.