Friday, November 3rd
I walked through the cemetery this morning, the grass slick with last nights rain. My boots made little prints in the mud beside scattered oak leavesleaves the colour of old copper, pressed flat by water. The trees stood stripped and bowed above the rows of weathered gravestones, silent sentinels in the pale light.
I could hardly breathe for the weight of grief pressing on my chest. In front of one grey stone, I broke down again. I barely registered how wet my black wool coat had become; rainwater seeped through the fabric and I buried my face in trembling hands. My whole body shook with silent sobs I couldnt hold in. Beside me, Edwardthe only thing keeping me steadyknelt in his best suit. His eyes were fixed on the inscription that carried our sons names.
There on the headstone was an oval photo in black and whitetwo grinning boys in school uniforms. Our boys. Gone. Or so we had been told.
Time seemed to move strangely, slow and heavy, until I felt someone behind me. I lifted my head, peering through bleary eyes. There, just beyond the stone, stood a barefoot little girl. She was slightno more than six or sevenwith tangled blonde hair blowing wildly about her face, cheeks streaked with dirt. Her faded dress was torn and hung awkwardly off her thin shoulders.
She pointed at the photo. Calm. Steady. Not frightened at alljust absolutely certain. When she spoke, her voice was a thin thread drifting through the damp air.
The boys in that picture they stay with me at St. Marys on East Lane.
The world seemed to go utterly stilleven the wind paused. I stared at her, struggling to comprehend her words. Edwards back went rigid.
Sorry? He leaned closer, voice shaky.
She nodded and pointed again, right at our sons grinning from the photo. Their beds are next to mine in the dormitory.
I wanted to speak, but I could only manage a weak gasp. I was frozen, unable to move or think. Edward staggered to his feet, his face ashen. That cant be true, he managed.
The little girl dropped her hand at last, her eyes flicking from the photo to us and back again as the wind tossed a handful of wet leaves at her ankles. She took a tiny step forward, voice gentler still, almost a whisper.
One of them cries some nights.
That was nearly enough to undo me. I clamped my hand over my mouth and felt tears well up again, hot and impossible to hold back. Edward looked from the stone to the child, twisting his wedding ring, mouth opening and closing as he tried to make sense of it.
The girl wasnt finished. Her eyes never left ours. He says your name when he wakes up, she murmured, barely above a breath.
Now it was Edward who was trembling. I clutched the fabric of his sleeve, desperate not to let go, afraid he might fall apart just as I had.
With one last solemn gaze at the grave, the girl looked up at us. Her tone never changed, quiet and surea voice from the damp November air.
They asked me to find you.She pressed a scrap of paper into my handcrumpled, warm from her palm. I stared at the mess of graphite, lines crooked and desperate: Mum. Dad. Please. Find us.
Something broke loose inside me thena gasp, a hope so wild it hurt. Hands shaking, I unfolded the page again, searching for anything familiar. At the bottom was a jagged scrawl, unmistakable: Jamies uneven signature, and in a different hand, Sams shy looping script.
My heart thundered. Edward gripped my arm, clinging now, tears tracing silent paths down his cheeks. I looked up to thank the girl, to plead for her help or guidance, but she was gonedisappeared into the tangle of trees and headstones, as quietly as shed come.
The wind picked up, swirling skirts of fog among the graves. My grief was there, but no longer suffocatingit was pierced by a single, blinding shaft of hope.
Edward was already moving, stumbling across muddy leaves in the direction of the gate, calling my name. St. Marys! he choked. We have tonow!
I ran after him, feet pounding, lungs burning, the scrap of paper clenched tight in my fist. The sky above was breaking open, pale light pushing through the cloudsand in that sliver of hope, I knew: the story we had written in granite and tears was not the end. Our boys were out there, waiting.
We would not stop until we found them.
Leave a Reply