November 23, Saturday

THE RAKE rasped against frosted grass as I cleared fallen leaves from around the headstones. The repetitive motion was soothing, helping to quiet the echoes of yesterday's conversation with my mother.

"Good morning, dear."

I startled at Muriel's voice, nearly dropping the rake. The elderly woman stood at the wrought-iron gate, wrapped in a thick purple cardigan that made her silver hair seem to glow.

"Morning, Muriel." I gestured at the plywood covering Rose's empty grave. "Just trying to tidy up a bit."

Muriel approached slowly, her walking stick tapping a gentle rhythm against the path. "I was wondering about that." She nodded toward the plywood. "Quite an eyesore."

"The city inspector says it's a safety hazard." I leaned on my rake. "If they don't find Rose's casket soon, they want the grave filled in."

"Find it?" Muriel's laugh was like wind chimes in a breeze. "Oh, my dear. They won't find it."

Something in her tone made the hair on my arms stand up. "What do you mean?"

"Tell me," she said, ignoring my question, "have you seen her? Rose?"

Images flashed through my mind—a dark-haired figure disappearing around corners, a white dress flowing toward the graveyard, footsteps on the stairs when I was alone in the house. I swallowed hard.

"No," I lied. "I haven't seen anything."

Muriel's pale blue eyes studied me, seeming to see straight through my deception. She turned in a slow circle, her gaze sweeping across the cemetery like a searchlight.

"She's here," she said finally, her voice carrying absolute certainty.

"Here?" I whispered. "What do you mean, here?"

But Muriel was already moving away, her stick tap-tapping down the path, steady as a heartbeat.

"Muriel?" I called after her. "What did you mean?"

She didn't turn around, didn't acknowledge my question. The gate creaked as she passed through, the sound impossibly loud in the stillness.

I stood frozen, rake clutched in my trembling hands, as fog began creeping between the headstones. The temperature seemed to drop, though the sun still shone weakly overhead.

She's here.

The words hung in the air like frost, making every shadow suddenly suspect. Every rustle of leaves could be footsteps. Every breath of wind could carry whispers.

The rake slipped from my numb fingers, clattering against a headstone. I backed away from Rose's grave, from the plywood that suddenly seemed too flimsy a barrier between this world and... whatever lay beyond.