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.

Lena waited in the dirt through a whole day and half a night. When the moon rose, she climbed out and set two teacups on a flat stone. Then she remembered the problem. Oliver was coming back to see the secret playhouse. But the playhouse sat far past the graves, near the fence line. Her rope would not let her walk him there. If he wandered the wrong way, he would leave. She might never see him again. She needed a guide that could move where she could not. A scarecrow leaned in the corner of the cemetery. Its burlap face had two dark, empty eyes. Lena had never touched it before. She pressed her cold hand to its stitched mouth and hummed through the cracked music box. The dancers on top spun faster. The scarecrow's arm twitched. Straw rustled. Its hollow eyes turned toward her, and Lena smiled. Now she had feet that could carry her voice. Morning came slow. By afternoon, footsteps crunched near the gate. Oliver slipped through the bars. His too-big pants dragged in the dirt, and tape wrapped one sneaker. He grinned at the quiet rows of stones like they were a fair. "You came back," Lena said from her grave. "Told you I would." He kicked a pebble. "Where's the secret place?" Lena's chest ached toward him. She could not lead him. So she pointed at the scarecrow. "He'll show you. Follow him." Oliver walked toward the far fence. He stopped at a split path. The wrong way led back to the gate. Lena strained against her rope and could not follow. "This way?" Oliver called, turning toward the gate. "No," Lena whispered, but her voice died in the empty rows. Then the scarecrow moved. Its stiff legs dragged forward. Its straw arm lifted and pointed down the right path. Oliver froze. His mouth fell open. "Whoa," he breathed. "It's alive." He did not run. He laughed and chased after it. The scarecrow limped ahead, past a weeping willow with dark red roots. Oliver stayed close. Lena hummed louder, and the music box guided them both. At the end of the path stood the little house. Vines crawled up its gray boards. Boards covered the windows. A crooked sign hung over the door. Oliver climbed the sagging porch and touched the door. "This is the coolest place ever," he said. "Can we play in here tomorrow? A real game. Just us." "Yes," Lena said, though she stood far behind him at her stone. "Tomorrow. Inside." Oliver ran off before dark, waving as he went. The scarecrow returned to its corner and went still. Lena sank into her grave, pleased. She had solved it. Her scarecrow could lead him now. But a new worry crept in. Tomorrow Oliver wanted to play inside the house. And the hole she needed sat in her grave, far from that door. She had to bring him back to her.