My Jack came to see me again. He’s just as handsome as I remembered, and I’m certain now he’s a gentleman, despite his odd clothes. His shoes are strange, but they look very new, and he uses words I’ve never even heard. But he’s not one of those gentlemen who look down on the small folk like we are vermin or criminals; not Jack. He speaks to me so politely, like I was a fine lady. Only he doesn’t say “Miss” or “m’Lady,” of course; anyone can see I’m not really a lady.
He said he didn’t know why he came, but I think that was bashfulness. He must have come to see me—why else would he come here? There’s nothing here but me. To think that he was missing me the way I miss him—oh! Nobody has ever missed me, not ever!
He went away so quickly though, and then the street was emptier and lonelier than ever before. As night came on, the mist oozed out of the alleys and hung in little tendrils over the street, and I had that feeling—the idea that if it got thick enough and swirled right around my feet, it might swallow me up, and then I’d be gone too. But it’s just a feeling. Since I met Jack my thoughts have been clearer. The mist is just mist. The reason the people are all gone is that they died. One by one, young or old, they died. But when they died, they left—to heaven or hell, I suppose. Perhaps the mist is filling in for all the people who have left.
Only I stayed, just as I stayed the night I died. I don’t know why or how I stayed, but I know I don’t want to disappear into the mist—especially now that I’ve met Jack. He’ll come back, and he’ll stay longer next time. I’m sure of it.
I had a thought after he left, a thought so exciting it makes me feel bright and strong.
I don’t think Jack is dead.