Lena Bright's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Lena Bright had been dead six years, and in all that time no one had come to play. She could rise from her grave when the moon was up. She could hum through her cracked music box until it played on its own. But she could never wander far. An invisible rope tied her to her headstone. She would drift toward the cemetery gate, feel the cold pull, and stop. Living children stayed on the far streets, past the fence, past her reach. Her whispers died in the empty rows of graves. Tonight she tried again. She pressed her porcelain cheek to the iron bars and called softly. "Come play," she said. "Come play with me." No one answered. The music box wound down in her hands. She almost went back to sleep in the dirt. Then she heard footsteps inside the fence. A boy stood among the stones. His clothes hung too big on his thin body. One sneaker was wrapped in dirty tape. He kicked a pebble and watched it roll, in no hurry to be anywhere. Lena had never seen a child come this close on his own. Her cold hand tightened on the music box. "Hello," she said. The boy spun around. He did not run. He squinted at her white dress and her cracked face, and he grinned. "You're weird," he said. "I like weird." "I'm Lena." "Oliver." He shrugged. "Nobody plays with me either. My parents don't even notice when I leave." He said it plainly, like reading a grocery list. Lena understood that flat, lonely voice. She used it herself. She held out the music box. It began to tinkle on its own. Oliver's eyes went wide. "How does it do that?" "Magic," she said. "Do you want to see more?" He stepped closer. She could smell him now, warm and alive, the way she had not smelled anything in years. Her whole body ached toward him. This was it. This was the one. All she had to do was lead him to the hole in the earth and never let go. But Oliver was already backing toward the gate. "I have to go. It's late. My mom locks the door at nine." He grinned again. "But this place is cool. Can I come back tomorrow?" Lena wanted to grab his wrist. She reached. The cold rope yanked her back toward her stone, and her fingers closed on empty air. "Tomorrow," she said instead, and made her voice sweet. "Come back tomorrow. I'll show you a secret place. A playhouse. All ours." "Deal," Oliver said. He slipped through the bars and ran off into the dark. Lena stood alone at the fence, the music box still playing. For the first time in six years, a child knew her name. And he was coming back. She sank into her grave to wait, already planning where the hole in the ground would open beneath his feet.