"Oh, sorry," a girl gave Frank a quick smile after bumping into him in a narrow aisle of a huge department store. Before he could answer, she disappeared in the crowds of other Christmas shoppers. Frank patted his shoulder and tried to squeeze through people to an escalator.

Shopping was not on the list of his favourite things to do and Christmas shopping usually moved the activity to the very bottom of the list. He loved choosing presents and making them, but the department store seemed to have a zillion of people this time of year – meaning crowded corridors, lengthy queues, shortages of wanted goods, hours of searching for the right gifts and bad mood and headache by the end of the day as a result.

Having finally finished with presents for his family, Frank went to the ground floor to a Christmas decorations department – his mother and aunt would love some British-styled adornments.

He made his way to a shelf with Christmas tree balls and picked up one. It was covered in a British flag ornament and he wondered, not for the first time since coming to the country, how the British had managed to make ordinary things fashionable – national flag, red telephone booths, black cabs….

Frank studied the ball, baffling with the desire to pay the unthinkable price for it. Joe would have definitely got it – he loved unusual Christmas things. But he wasn't Joe. He could go for everything Joe ever loved, collected and dreamt of – which Frank often did, he had to admit to himself – but Joe wasn't coming back. The ball that would hang on their tree this Christmas, it wouldn't be brought by Joe. In fact, it would never have anything to do with Joe.

Frank angrily placed the ball back to the shelf. Why did every object have to remind? Why couldn't he make a step without seeing small things that screamed "Joe" into his face?

"Excuse me?" a female voice asked from behind, making him jump. "Oh, I'm sorry."

Frank didn't find the voice in his parched throat to reply to the black and slightly overweight woman with kind eyes. This must have been impolite and very un-English, but he couldn't care less.

"I noticed you and the weight you're carrying," she said. "It might not be my business, but I still thought I should come and tell you. You keep thinking about someone you lost. It eats from inside, I can see," she went on. "But there's a girl around you," she nodded to the left of Frank, to nothing but thin air. "She asked me to tell you that he is not among them."

"Wh-?" Frank finally asked hoarsely, totally dumbfounded. "Among whom?"

"The gone."

He blinked at her. Was she crazy? Or did he misunderstand her accent and she actually talked about the weather?

"I am not insane," she smiled at him, sensing his bewilderment. "I am just psychic, that's all."

Just psychic, that's all. This should have explained everything and made him feel easier, isn't it?

Just then Frank noticed a psychic salon in the corner and he felt anger start to boil inside of him. An Arab woman was thanking some woman in black at the cashier, hiding a photograph into her purse. Another London tourist attraction, meant to trick people into spending money – this time on fortune-telling. That was a low blow.

"You buried someone else, she says."

"Well, thank you for your information," Frank said between clenched teeth, "but I need to go and-"

"She says-"

"Stop, damn it!" Frank raised a hand. "This is a sick way to attract customers."

"She says her name was… V- Viola? Says he doesn't have much time left," she gave him a meek smile and went back to the salon, welcoming another customer.

Frank stood there, breathing heavily. How dared she? He cursed, his face red with irritation.

This was rubbish. There was no one to the left of him and he was positive that piles of Christmas socks and toy antlers he stood close to couldn't speak.

There were DNA proofs, checked and re-checked three times, that it was Joe in the car and Joe undoubtedly didn't have much time left, because time had stopped for him months ago. Frank forced the tears of anger back into his eyes

He should stop this – believing in the impossible, wanting Joe back alive, seeing the reminder of him in every little thing.

He used to believe in afterlife and ghosts, until Joe's never came. There were nights when he'd pray to hear a rustle in the room where Joe used to live, but it was forever silent. There were nights when he begged Joe to come in his sleep and tell him he was in a better place and happy, but he never did. There were nights when he'd sneak to the cemetery, hoping to feel Joe's presence there, but he was always alone.

Joe just- gone. One second and there was no more him. Just ripped out of life, as if he never existed at all.

So how dared anyone come to him and talk psychic nonsense?

Something fell at Frank's feet. He sniffed, wiped his eyes and kneeled to pick the thing up. A Christmas card. Wishing you a miraculous Christmas, it said in golden calligraphy. Frank frowned and looked around as he rose back to his feet – he was surrounded by NY tree balls, garlands, wrapping paper, socks. But gifting cards were nowhere in sight.

His mind went numb as he stared at the card in his hand again.

He was just being silly.

He was just going crazy to dare to even think such thoughts.

He was just being over-emotional.

He just needed more time – more months, more years, more decades – to accept his brother's death.

Frank took the card to the cashier, paid £3.99 for it and went out of the department store to Oxford Street.

Hundreds of crazily dressed people, who talked in hundreds of accents and languages, carrying hundreds of shopping packs, were rushing by, ignoring the perplexed young man, who stood lost among them all, clutching a small Christmas postcard in his hand.