sat cross-legged on a futon on the floor—it was the one piece of furniture she owned—and ate cold rice while she watched the evening news on a blurry television set almost as old as she was.
But she wasn’t hungry, and the news was the same parade of disasters and violence it was every night, and suddenly she did not want to be there, in that dim little apartment, alone and brooding and trapped. She stood and looked around, as if seeing the place for the first time. It didn’t seem real. Was this where she lived? She knew it was, and yet it couldn’t be. How could it, when she felt so disconnected from it all? This place—none of this—was hers. It was an irrational feeling, and yet so strong and certain she could only believe it was true.
Grace did not belong here.
She left the greasy carton of food on top of the TV set, stood, and grabbed a jacket. The door shut behind her, and only as she started down the steps did she realize she had not locked it. She almost halted, almost turned to head back up the stairs. This was not the best of neighborhoods. Until that moment she had always been obsessive about locking the door. Now giddiness rose in her chest, and along with it an odd sense of premonition. Somehow she knew, if she left this place now, she would not come back again, and if that was true, whether she locked the door or not mattered nothing.
Grace hesitated only a heartbeat, then descended the steps. She shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket and walked into the gathering twilight.
After a few blocks she found herself on the edge of an expanse of green-brown grass speckled here and there with trees. City Park. She started down one of the park’s asphalt trails. Soon she found herself humming. It was a half-remembered song, from her childhood perhaps. The melodycame easily to her lips, although she did not know its name, and she could recall only a few snatches of murmured lyrics:
“
And farewell words too often part
All their small and paling hearts.…
”
The words made little sense—she supposed they had been transmuted in her mind with time—but they were comforting all the same. As she often did when she walked, Grace reached up and drew out a silver necklace that hung around her throat. On the end was a pendant, a wedge-shaped piece of metal incised with an angular design. Like the song, the necklace was a thing of her childhood. She had been wearing it when the people from the orphanage had found her, although she had been too young to remember. Still, it was a link to the parents and the life she had never known, and although it was a sad reminder, it was precious as well.
Grace walked on. It felt good to distance herself from the oppression of the city’s buildings. The air was lighter in the park, pearl instead of gray, and she could feel a hint of the vastness of the world that lay beyond. The mountains stood in silhouette on the horizon, as sharp and flat and black as if a child had cut them from construction paper for an art project. The first stars glimmered in the sky. She drifted on through the park.
It was the girl’s eyes that caught her.
Grace nearly did not see her at all, for the child’s old-fashioned dress was the exact shade of twilight, and her hair was a shadow floating about the pale-moon oval of her face. However, her purple eyes glowed in the dimness, and when Grace saw them she froze in mid-step. The girl appeared to be no more than eight or nine years old. She stood quietly beneath the slender ghost of an aspen tree to one side of the path, small hands folded neatly before her, fingers soft and pink as the petals of an unfurled rose.
Come to me
, Grace thought she heard the child whisper, although that would have been impossible. All the same she moved toward the girl, responding to that instinctual power children sometimes have over adults. In moments she stood before the child.
“I am not lost,” the girl said in a clear voice.
Grace snapped her
But she wasn’t hungry, and the news was the same parade of disasters and violence it was every night, and suddenly she did not want to be there, in that dim little apartment, alone and brooding and trapped. She stood and looked around, as if seeing the place for the first time. It didn’t seem real. Was this where she lived? She knew it was, and yet it couldn’t be. How could it, when she felt so disconnected from it all? This place—none of this—was hers. It was an irrational feeling, and yet so strong and certain she could only believe it was true.
Grace did not belong here.
She left the greasy carton of food on top of the TV set, stood, and grabbed a jacket. The door shut behind her, and only as she started down the steps did she realize she had not locked it. She almost halted, almost turned to head back up the stairs. This was not the best of neighborhoods. Until that moment she had always been obsessive about locking the door. Now giddiness rose in her chest, and along with it an odd sense of premonition. Somehow she knew, if she left this place now, she would not come back again, and if that was true, whether she locked the door or not mattered nothing.
Grace hesitated only a heartbeat, then descended the steps. She shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket and walked into the gathering twilight.
After a few blocks she found herself on the edge of an expanse of green-brown grass speckled here and there with trees. City Park. She started down one of the park’s asphalt trails. Soon she found herself humming. It was a half-remembered song, from her childhood perhaps. The melodycame easily to her lips, although she did not know its name, and she could recall only a few snatches of murmured lyrics:
“
And farewell words too often part
All their small and paling hearts.…
”
The words made little sense—she supposed they had been transmuted in her mind with time—but they were comforting all the same. As she often did when she walked, Grace reached up and drew out a silver necklace that hung around her throat. On the end was a pendant, a wedge-shaped piece of metal incised with an angular design. Like the song, the necklace was a thing of her childhood. She had been wearing it when the people from the orphanage had found her, although she had been too young to remember. Still, it was a link to the parents and the life she had never known, and although it was a sad reminder, it was precious as well.
Grace walked on. It felt good to distance herself from the oppression of the city’s buildings. The air was lighter in the park, pearl instead of gray, and she could feel a hint of the vastness of the world that lay beyond. The mountains stood in silhouette on the horizon, as sharp and flat and black as if a child had cut them from construction paper for an art project. The first stars glimmered in the sky. She drifted on through the park.
It was the girl’s eyes that caught her.
Grace nearly did not see her at all, for the child’s old-fashioned dress was the exact shade of twilight, and her hair was a shadow floating about the pale-moon oval of her face. However, her purple eyes glowed in the dimness, and when Grace saw them she froze in mid-step. The girl appeared to be no more than eight or nine years old. She stood quietly beneath the slender ghost of an aspen tree to one side of the path, small hands folded neatly before her, fingers soft and pink as the petals of an unfurled rose.
Come to me
, Grace thought she heard the child whisper, although that would have been impossible. All the same she moved toward the girl, responding to that instinctual power children sometimes have over adults. In moments she stood before the child.
“I am not lost,” the girl said in a clear voice.
Grace snapped her
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