The mother knelt in the soggy autumn leaves, her black coat soaked through, her face hidden in trembling hands. Next to her, the father stared blankly at the weathered grey gravestone, looking too drained to even cry anymore. Set into the stone was a small black-and-white photo where two young boys gazed out at them forever.
A little girl without shoes suddenly stepped up from the far side of the grave. Her simple dress was torn, her blonde hair wild and knotted, and her feet filthy from the damp cemetery path. She lifted one finger, pointing directly at the photo.
Theyre not gone, she said, her voice steady.
The mother looked up, grief mixing with confusion. The father spun around sharply. What did you say?
The girl stayed calm as ever, finger poised at the photo, and the cold wind seemed to grow even chillier.
Theyre with me, she replied.
Fear crept over the mothers tearstained face. She crept closer, dead leaves stuck to her coat. Who do you mean?
The girl nodded towards the younger boy. Then the older.
Both of them.
The father shot to his feet so quickly the leaves crackled underfoot. Where?
The girl finally lowered her hand, glancing off towards the iron cemetery gates. At the childrens home.
The mothers breath just stopped.
The fathers voice broke apart. Take us there.
The little girl turned quietly, facing the road beyond the gates. The mother scrambled up, heart racing. The father reached out but the girl slipped away before his hand could reach her.
Not frightened.
She seemed so sure of herself.
Leaves skittered around her bare feet as a bitter wind cut through the graveyard. The sky overhead was the bruised grey of a late English afternoon.
The mother stared at the child, as if a piece of her sorrow had suddenly taken form right in front of her.
What childrens home? she whispered.
The girl shifted her head a little, thoughtful.
The red one.
The father went pale.
There was only one red brick childrens home close by.
St. Agnes Home.
It had been shut down thirteen years earlier, after a terrible fire.
The mother clutched her husbands arm, wrinkling the sleeve.
No, she said immediately almost pleading. No, that place went up in flames.
The girl looked puzzled. Not all of it.
A heavy silence closed over them.
This time, the father approached her slowly, moving carefully as if he might spook her.
How do you know our boys? he asked softly.
The child lifted her gaze to the photo again.
They talk to me at night.
The mother made a broken sound, all pain and longing.
It wasnt disbelief.
It was the agony of hoping too hard.
The father swallowed thickly.
Our sons died three years ago.
The girl wrinkled her brow. No.
The wind whipped up, scattering branches. The girl pointed again first at the smaller boy in the picture. He cries in his sleep. Then at the other twin. And he hides food under his bed for him.
The mother buckled back onto her knees.
Because that
That was true.
That was something only her sons did.
The older twin always squirreled away biscuits for his brother after his nightmares.
Always.
Now the fathers voice shook, urgent. Who told you that?
The girl gave him an odd look. Asher did.
The mother let out a strangled scream. It wasnt loud just pure horror.
Asher.
It was the younger twins name. A name never carved on the gravestone, only their family name below the photo.
The father stumbled back. How do you know that name?
The girl pointed once more towards the gates. Theyre waiting.
The world seemed to empty out, the air gone thin.
The mother leapt to her feet, nearly tripping.
Please, take us there, she begged, tears streaming as she clung to hope and fear all at once. If this is a cruel jokeif anyone put you up to this
The girl just shook her head. No one told me. Then, softer, They asked me.
The father fumbled for his car keys, hands shaking. Where is it?
But the girl didnt answer straightaway. Instead, she looked back toward the grave, to the photo.
And for just a heartbeat
The mother thought she saw something move in that faded picture. The faintest shimmer, the tiniest shift in a boys smile.
Then it was gone.
The girl started off, bare feet silent on the wet stone. The couple rushed after her, passing rows of headstones, wilted flowers, rain-streaked marble angels.
The father watched the girl, torn between wanting to shield her and fearing just what she was.
Why were you at our boys grave? he asked.
She kept walking. They didnt want to be alone today.
The mother wept harder.
Because today was the twins birthday.
No one had told the child that.
No one could have.
Ahead, the gates creaked open as they approached. Beyond the road, and beyond the shadowy yew trees, stood a battered red brick building against the dusk.
St. Agnes.
Scorched windows.
Half the roof caved in.
Condemned for over a decade.
The father stopped dead. Theres no one there.
The girl turned and, for the first time, looked sad.
There is, she whispered.
She raised her hand and pointed at a second-floor window.
The mothers gaze followed, and she froze.
Behind the cracked glass, for just a moment, stood two little boys.
Identical.
One pressed his hand to the pane.
And the other was clutching the soft rabbit theyd buried with Asher three years ago.