Her wide brown eyes met his with disarming innocence. The bouquet of white lilies slipped from Ethan’s grasp, scattering across the neatly trimmed grass covering the graves he believed held his family.
“What… what did you say?” His voice cracked into a rasp. For two years his heart had beaten out of habit alone—now it slammed painfully against his ribs.
The girl, no older than eight, flinched at the intensity in his gaze but did not run.
“I see them, mister. Ava and Lily. They play in the yard of the blue house at the end of Maple Street. My grandma lives in the front house. They don’t come outside much—their mom won’t let them. But I talk to them through a hole in the fence. They gave me this.”
She reached into her faded coat and opened her palm.
Ethan stopped breathing.
A small silver butterfly hair clip lay there, one wing chipped.
He had bought the pair for the twins’ fifth birthday. He remembered Lily crying after dropping one on the pavement and how he had carefully glued the broken wing back into place.
“What’s your name?” he asked, swallowing tears.
“Chloe, sir.”
“Chloe… can you take me there? Right now?”