Gene edges around the figure in the doorway, holding his breath when his shirt brushes near the boy's hair. But there's still no reaction, and he doesn't want to look too closely at his own face. He looks over to his mother instead, currently pressing a damp flannel to Stuart's naked back.

'I'm sorry, luv, won't take long.'

Stuart mumbles something in return, and the elder Gene shuts his eyes, and tries to remember this.

'He kept saying he was sorry,' he says, though he doesn't expect the ghost to care. 'For years after, I thought getting sick was something you had to apologise for.'

Though their mother never forced them to feel that way. Gene looks at her closely for the first time, and immediately feels like a cold blade has been slid between his ribs.

She looks different to how he remembers. Different to the version living in his world. Because, of course, this was then. This was real. He swivels, and looks at himself. Different too, slightly. Easier to see how that kid grew up to be the ghost that haunts him when it suits.

He feels sick. But Stuart's apologising again, and he turns back to watch.

'Sorry, mam. Didn' mean...'

'Well. You'll know better next time.'

Gene frowns. That doesn't sound like a thing you say to someone with mumps. He glances at the Christmas Ghost.

'Everything you show me is stuff that did happen, for real?'

Given that he's recently found out that everything he thought was real is actually a figment of his subconscious, he doesn't feel stupid in asking the question.