It’s properly autumn now in London. The air’s sharp, and the leaves are crunching under my trainers as we walk down the road. I’ve got Lily’s tiny hand wrapped round my finger, her other one clutching the plastic pumpkin bucket we got her. She’s in this soft little witch costume, black hat too big for her head, tulle skirt puffed out like she’s about to float away.

You’re walking next to us, coat pulled tight around you, smiling every time she babbles something only half-intelligible. Been together eight years now, married for four. Still feels a bit mad sometimes — how quiet life’s gone since the tour ended, how right it feels, just us three in the house here. I’ve not been on stage in over two years, not written anything serious either, and for the first time it doesn’t feel like I’m missing out.

Gemma and Michal walk ahead, Ava bouncing in her pram, wearing the same witch outfit as Lily. Matching cousins, your idea. “They’ll look adorable,” you’d said this morning, and you were right. The sight of them together’s almost painfully sweet. We’ve barely gone two streets when the decorations start getting a bit much. Big cobwebs across garden gates, plastic skeletons in the bushes. Someone’s even set up a smoke machine. The girls slow right down, staring wide-eyed at a house with glowing red lights and a fake zombie popping up from behind the hedge. Lily squeezes my finger tighter. “It’s alright, love,” I say, bending down a bit so she can hide her face against my shoulder. “It’s all pretend, yeah?”

She gives this uncertain little whimper and buries herself in my jumper. Ava’s doing the same with Michal now, both of them clearly deciding that this whole trick-or-treating business isn’t worth the sweets. Gemma looks over her shoulder at me, laughing softly. “Guess we were a bit ambitious, eh?”

I grin. “Yeah, maybe startin’ with the haunted-house street wasn’t our best move.”

You reach out, smoothing Lily’s hair, and she peeks up at you for reassurance. My chest aches a bit watching it, all that trust in such a small face. I kiss the top of her head. “How about we head back, make those ghost biscuits instead?” I suggest.

Gemma sighs in relief. “Thank God. Ava’s about to start crying and I’m not ready for that soundtrack all the way home.”

We turn round, the girls still clinging to us. The wind’s picked up, making the paper ghosts hanging from porches dance about. I can hear faint laughter from a group of older kids in the distance, their bags clinking with sweets. For a second, I imagine Lily and Ava that age—running ahead, fearless, faces sticky with chocolate. Makes me smile, that thought.

By the time we reach our gate, the streetlights are fully on, everything bathed in this soft orange glow. Lily’s half-asleep against my chest, her little witch hat drooping sideways. I open the door for you, follow you in, warmth hitting straight away. Gemma carries Ava to the sofa, and we set the girls down together, both yawning, tiny hands still gripping their buckets. Michal laughs quietly. “Big night out for them.”

“Yeah,” I say, tugging off my coat, “reckon the biscuits’ll be the highlight anyway.”

You’re already in the kitchen, switching on the fairy lights we strung around the cupboards last week. I set Lily on a stool, her head bobbing as she fights sleep. She mumbles something about “spooky ghosts,” and I can’t help but laugh. “Too spooky for us tonight, huh?” I whisper, brushing her hair back.

You glance over, flour in hand, and smile. It’s all quiet for a moment, just the hum of the oven warming up, the soft rustle of Gemma unpacking the cookie cutters. I lean against the counter, watching you move about, feeling that familiar wave of contentment. Never thought Halloween would look like this — no parties, no flashing cameras, no chaos. Just us, our girls, a kitchen full of laughter waiting to happen. I reach for the mixing bowl, meet your eyes again, and grin. “Alright then,” I say, voice low, full of warmth, “let’s make some ghosts we can actually eat."