The mother knelt on the damp autumn leaves, her dark coat soaking up the wet from the earth, her face hidden in her trembling hands.
Beside her, the father gazed at the pale gravestone as if hed lost the strength for tears.
In the faded black-and-white photograph set into the stone, two young boys peered out at them for all eternity.
Thats when a barefoot little girl appeared from behind the grave.
Her dress was torn, her fair hair wild and knotted, her bare feet streaked with mud from the chilly cemetery path.
She pointed a small finger at the picture.
Theyre not truly gone.
The mother looked up, her cheeks streaked with tears.
The father turned sharply, hope and pain mingling on his face.
What did you say?
The girl didnt falter.
Her finger remained on the boys’ faces, and a strange calmness about her seemed to deepen the wintry chill.
They still stay with me.
The mothers sorrow shifted to something sharper: fear.
She crawled a little closer, dead leaves clinging to her coat.
Who do you mean?
The girl pointed first to one boy, then the other.
Both of them.
The father shot upright, shoes crunching the brittle leaves.
Where?
The girl finally let her hand fall and looked off towards the cemetery gate.
At the childrens home.
The mother seemed to stop breathing, her chest frozen.
The fathers voice cracked for the first time.
Take us there.
The girl turned slowly in the direction of the lane.
The mother scrambled to her feet, desperate.
The father extended a hand towards the girl
but she stepped away just before he could reach her.
Not afraid.
Certain.
Dry leaves rustled about her feet as the cold Lancashire wind swept over the churchyard.
The sky above shone the colour of old pewter.
The mother stared at the girl, as if witnessing something unimaginable crawling out of mourning itself.
What childrens home? she whispered.
The girl tipped her head thoughtfully.
The red one.
The colour seemed to drain from the fathers face.
He knew there was only one red-brick childrens home nearby.
St. Agness Home.
Boarded up thirteen years ago, after the fire.
The mother caught at her husbands sleeve, clutching so tightly the fabric wrinkled beneath her fingers.
No, she muttered, the word tumbling out. Noit burned down.
The girl frowned, quietly puzzled by the denial.
Not all of it.
A heavy hush settled over the churchyard.
The father approached with care now, as if the strange moment might splinter apart.
How do you know our boys?
The girls gaze lifted slowly to the headstone once more.
She looked at the photo.
They talk to me at night.
A faint, broken sound caught in the mothers throat.
Not defiance.
Painthe sort that comes when hope is more frightening than despair.
The father swallowed painfully.
Our sons died three years ago.
The girl shook her head slightly, as if correcting a simple error.
No, they didnt.
A gust of wind pressed through the yew trees overhead, their branches creaking.
She pointed at the smaller boy in the photo.
He weeps in his sleep.
Then to the elder.
And he hides biscuits under the mattress for his brother.
The mother sank down onto her knees again.
Because that
That was true.
That was what her sons had always done.
The older twin always squirreled away biscuits for his younger brother. Always, after bad dreams.
The desperation in the fathers voice sharpened.
Who told you this?
The girl regarded him solemnly.
Archie did.
The mothers scream came out thin and dreadful.
Because Archie was the little ones name
A name never chiseled onto the stone
Only the family surname was carved beneath the photograph.
The father staggered back.
How do you know that name?
The girl stared beyond them, pointing to the cemetery gate.
Theyre waiting.
It felt as though the air in the world had gone.
The mother stood so quickly she almost slipped.
Take us now! she pleaded.
Tears ran unstoppable down her cheeks.
If this is some cruel jokeif someone put you up to this
The girl shook her head.
No one told me.
Then, barely whispering:
They asked me.
The father fumbled in his coat for the car keys.
Where is it?
But the girl didnt answer straightaway.
She looked at the grave once more.
Looked at the boys in their picture.
And for one heart-stopping instant,
the mother fancied she saw the image move
just the faintest flicker, as if one childs smile had shifted.
Then it was still.
The little girl began walking.
Bare feet clicking on the wet stone.
The parents hurried after her.
Past crooked gravestones, past wilted flowers, past stone angels streaked with rain.
The father kept watching the little girl, torn between wanting to shield her and fearing what she was.
Why come to our sons grave? he managed, voice tight.
The girl walked on.
They didnt want to be lonely today.
The mothers sobbing grew louder.
Because today was the twins birthday
And no one had told the child that. No one could have.
The heavy metal gates groaned open before them.
Beyond the road, past the black silhouettes of trees
stood an old red-brick building, dark against the lowering sky.
Saint Agness.
Windows burnt out, one roof fallen in.
Condemned, deserted for years.
The father stopped short.
Theres no one there.
For the first time, the girl turned back.
There was a sudden sadness in her eyes.
There is, she replied, nearly inaudible.
She raised her hand and pointed toward a top-floor window.
The mothers gaze followed silently.
And therejust for a moment
behind cracked, dusty glass
stood two little boys.
Identical.
One pressed a hand to the pane.
The other
held up the battered stuffed rabbit that had been buried with Archie three years ago.