A boy stood there, maybe seven or eight. His jeans were stained, his sweatshirt too thin for the weather. But his eyes—wide, brown, and far too serious—were fixed on Harrison.
“Sir,” the boy said softly, “you come here all the time.”
Harrison nodded stiffly. “They’re my daughters.”
The words always hurt.
The boy hesitated, then pointed toward the graves. “They’re not there.”
The world seemed to tilt.
“What did you say?” Harrison’s voice sharpened.
“They’re not there,” the boy repeated, calmer now. “I see them somewhere else. They want you to know.”
A chill ran through Harrison’s body.
Then he noticed what the boy held in his hand.
A rag doll.
Faded pink dress. One loose button eye.
Identical to the doll Emily had lost the day of the accident. Harrison had sewn it himself one Christmas Eve.
His breath caught. “Where did you get that?”
The boy opened his mouth to answer—
But terror flashed across his face. His eyes widened at something behind Harrison.
Harrison spun around.
Nothing but trees and stone.
When he turned back, the boy was gone.
Vanished.
“Wait!” Harrison shouted, stumbling to his feet. He searched between graves, called out, questioned the groundskeeper. No one had seen a boy.