"You finally remembered."
The words hung in the air.
Nobody moved.
For a moment, even the wind seemed to stop.
Grey stood frozen beside the front of his house, his cigarette forgotten between his fingers. Ezra and Harold exchanged a quick glance, neither of them willing to be the first to turn around.
The voice had come from directly behind them.
A voice that should not have existed.
A voice that belonged to a little girl who had been dead for more than thirty years.
Harold slowly turned his head toward Ezra.
Ezra's face was just as tense.
"Did you hear that?" Harold whispered.
Ezra didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
They had all heard it.
Grey's breathing became shallow.
His eyes remained fixed on the road ahead.
Then the voice came again.
"It's me, Dad."
A tiny giggle followed.
Soft.
Childlike.
Almost playful.
"Turn around."
Grey closed his eyes.
His hand trembled.
"No," he whispered.
Harold looked at him.
"Grey…"
"No."
Grey swallowed hard.
