THE BOY

Polly

The first time I’d met Rose she was singing a song about a swallow. Her dead aunt drew swallows over and over again.

Rose went to St. Ursula’s. Her dead aunt got kicked out of St. Ursula’s.

Rose saw ghosts everywhere. So did Winnie.

They thought Winnie was crazy. Rose was terrified of going crazy.

They looked EXACTLY ALIKE.

It couldn’t all be coincidence.

I wondered where Rose had got to. I hoped she was okay. I didn’t know how to help her, except to keep investigating.

I had no idea of the time. I was probably late for dinner. I stuffed the drawings back in the box and left it in the attic. If Rose came back, she would find it.

Rose

The passing cars and the noises of the city faded away and there was only Winnie and me, face-to-face on the bridge. It was like looking into a mirror. My mouth, my eyes, my hair. A wild look in her eyes.

I opened my mouth to speak but no words came out. I swallowed and tried again.

“Why have you brought me here? What’s going on?”

She took a step towards me. I took a step back.

“You need to know,” she hissed at me. “You need to understand.”

“Why is it snowing in October?” I demanded. “Why are the cars and the streetlights all old-fashioned? What have you done to me?”

“I haven’t done anything,” she said. “You are following in my footsteps. You have always been following in my footsteps, and now it’s time for you to understand why.”

“I’m not!” I protested. “I’m not following in anyone’s footsteps. I won’t! I’m going home.” I whirled around and started to run.

I only made it out of the alcove, back to the sidewalk, and then I stopped. The shadowy figure that had pursued me all along Parliament Street and across the bridge stood a few feet away, staring through me at Winnie.

It was a little boy dressed in a long wool coat, with a cap pulled low on his forehead and a scarf wound tight around his neck. But I would have recognized those eyes anywhere—whether they were looking out at me from a photograph from forty years ago, or twinkling at me as he said good night on those rare occasions when he was home at bedtime. My father.