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Most time-travel fiction is concerned with consequences. A character changes one detail in the past and returns to discover an different present, but Kawaguchi removes that possibility entirely.

Ayesha Inoon’s The Sisters of Serendib begins with a family torn apart before its youngest members are old enough to understand what they've lost. In 1990, three sisters flee war-torn Sri Lanka with their mother aboard a boat bound for Australia. When their mother dies during the journey, Janu, Samar and Maryam are separated and raised by different families across the country.

Grotesque escalation can produce horror, but repeated extremity eventually flattens feeling. Once every doorway leads to another atrocity, atrocity becomes expectation. The reader might continue because the solution remains tantalising, yet the emotional response is narrowed to shock.

A white bird sits inside a black and thorny tree. Five drawings left by a woman who died during childbirth form a hidden image when placed together. A young boy covers part of his picture in heavy black strokes. A murdered art teacher leaves behind a landscape that appears to record his final moments.

Anthea Hodgson’s The Palace of Lost Virtue begins with one woman believing she's been called to save another.

Every now and then a book comes along that makes you wonder whether you've been telling yourself the wrong stories about your own life.

Allen Levi's Theo of Golden is the kind of novel that restores your faith in literature's ability to illuminate what it means to be human.

Roxy Cumberland is barely keeping her head above water while trying to make it as an actress in New York. With bills piling up and opportunities proving elusive, she takes a job performing singing telegrams. Unfortunately for Roxy, her first assignment involves dressing up as a giant pink bunny and delivering a rather explicit song to a wealthy Manhattan lawyer on behalf of one of his former conquests.

Ali Hazelwood has built an entire literary empire out of highly intelligent women, emotionally constipated men, and workplaces vibrating with unresolved tension, and Two Can Play slides neatly into that lineage. This time, though, the setting shifts from laboratories and academia into the world of video game development, painted as a landscape of crunch culture, professional rivalry, creative obsession, and people surviving almost entirely on caffeine and bad sleep schedules.

A lot of what happens here takes place in the mind rather than in space. There are still battles, still stakes, but they feel different. It's quieter, in a strange way and more abstract. It took me a while to settle into that, and I’m not sure I ever fully did.

Momentum is a strange kind of power in fiction. Some novels persuade slowly, almost imperceptibly; others seize you outright, pulling you forward with such force that resistance feels pointless. Along Came a Spider belongs, unmistakably, to the latter. It is not a novel that lingers at the edges of a reader’s attention—it insists, from its opening pages, on being followed.

And yet, that ambition is part of what makes Lost Lambs worth reading. It is not content to remain contained, to limit itself to the familiar satisfactions of the family novel. It wants to connect private disintegration to something systemic, to suggest that the instability within the Flynn household is not entirely separate from the structures surrounding it.

King Sorrow is less interested in what begins than in what continues. Joe Hill’s novel follows six friends bound by an occult pact that refuses to remain in the past, unfolding into a quiet, sustained study of responsibility, complicity, and the weight of carrying something forward.