Three nights later, I heard soft laughter.
It floated down my hallway, light as breath.
I opened my bedroom door—and there was Eli.
He sat on the floor, surrounded by a tower of books he’d stacked like blocks. His cheeks were flushed, his hair wild.
“He brought me back again,” he said cheerfully.
“Who did?”
“The quiet dad. He says you’re safe. Like the lady before.”
“What lady?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“The one who sings to flowers.”
I froze.
My Aunt Mary. She raised me when my parents passed. She used to sing lullabies to her garden, said her plants grew better when they felt loved.
No one else knew that.
She’d been gone six years.
I didn’t call the cops that time.
Instead, I made pancakes.
We sat in the kitchen, dawn creeping in through the curtains. For a little while, it felt heartbreakingly normal.
“You know I can’t keep you, right?” I told him gently.
“I know,” he said, swinging his feet. “He just wanted you to see.”
“See what?”
“That not all lost things are accidents.”
He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to me.
A child’s drawing.
Three stick figures beneath a yellow sun.
One had long hair—me.
One was small—Eli.
The third had no face.
Just long arms stretching out like branches.
