It was a rainy autumn day when tragedy struck the small town. People gathered along the road, their umbrellas bobbing like restless flowers under the downpour, watching as firefighters and police officers worked tirelessly to clear the aftermath of a landslide.
Among the few survivors was a little girl named Lizzie, no more than six years old. She stood at the center of the chaos, her small frame dwarfed by the towering figures around her. A damp, oversized coat had been draped over her shoulders by a kind policeman, but it did little to stop her shivering. Her wide, frightened eyes darted between the broken cars, fallen trees, and shifting debris, searching for something—or someone.
"Lizzie!" a familiar voice called.
A familiar voice pierced through the rain.
The little girl turned toward the sound, her gaze locking onto a white-haired woman hurrying toward her. The woman's face was etched with worry, she had just heard about the unfortunate news. Behind her, a gray-haired man followed closely, holding the umbrella steady to shield them both from the relentless rain.
Relief softened the woman's features as she knelt in front of Lizzie, gathering the trembling child into a tight embrace. "Oh, my sweet girl..." she murmured, her voice trembling.
Lizzie's fingers clung to the woman's shawl, her small hands shaking. "Mummy..." she murmured, her voice barely audible above the rain. "Where's mummy...?"
The question broke the woman's heart. She swallowed hard, her throat tightening as tears threatened to spill. The old man stepped closer, crawling down.
"Oh, my little angel..." Lizzie's grandfather whispered, brushing the rain-soaked strands of hair from the girl's face. "It's going to be alright. I promise." his voice trembled, but he forced a small, reassuring smile. He wiped the tears from Lizzie's cheeks, though his own were falling freely now, mingling with the rain that slipped from the tilted umbrella.
"Let's get her out of this cold," he said softly.
The woman nodded, lifting Lizzie into her arms. The little girl buried her face in her grandmother's shoulder, her tiny sobs muffled as they walked toward their car. The grandfather held the umbrella firmly over them, shielding Lizzie as best he could while they made their way through the wet, uneven terrain.
The drive to her grandparents' home was silent, save for the soft patter of rain against the windows and the occasional creak of the windscreen wipers. Lizzie sat in the back seat, her small figure dwarfed by the large coat wrapped tightly around her. She stared out the window, her eyes fixed on the blurry shapes of trees and houses rushing past.
Her grandparents exchanged quiet, worried glances in the front seat, trying to hold their tears. The weight of what had happened hung heavy in the air, too vast and incomprehensible to put into words. Their home was perched atop a hill overlooking the town, a sanctuary away from the chaos below. It was an old house, charmingly weathered by time, with ivy crawling along its wooden walls and a garden blooming wildly in defiance of the season. The scent of wet earth and damp leaves greeted them as they pulled into the driveway.
Inside, the wooden floors creaked softly underfoot, and the walls were lined with shelves overflowing with books, framed photographs, and small trinkets collected over the years. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a golden glow that seemed to wrap around the room like a comforting blanket.
"Let's get you cleaned up, sweetheart," said the frail woman, guiding Lizzie toward the bathroom uptairs.
The bathroom was warm and cosy, its pale tiles reflecting the light from a single bulb overhead. A claw foot tub stood in the corner, and her grandmother knelt beside it, turning the knobs as steam rose from the water. She carefully tested the temperature with her hand before adjusting it. Lizzie stood silently, her small hands gripping the damp coat. She didn't move until her grandmother coaxed her, gently helping her out of her muddy clothes and lowering her into the bath.
The warm water enveloped Lizzie, but it did little to ease the chill that lingered inside her. Her grandmother hummed softly—a faint, quivering melody—as she ran a soapy wash cloth over Lizzie's arms and back. The scent of lavender filled the room, but Lizzie barely noticed.
"There we go," her grandmother murmured, rinsing Lizzie's hair with a careful hand. "All clean now."
Afterward, she wrapped Lizzie in a thick towel, bundling her up like a small cocoon. The little girl didn't resist, leaning into her grandmother's gentle touch as she was dried off and dressed in soft pyjamas.
Her grandfather waited just outside the door, his large frame leaning against the wall. When Lizzie emerged, he gave her a small, tired smile and held out a hand.
"Let's get you to bed," he said, his voice low and soothing.
Lizzie took his hand, and her grandparents guided her to her room. Her room was tucked away at the end of the hallway that felt just a little too long. Her grandmother pushed open the door, revealing a cosy space filled with floral curtains, a quilted bedspread, and old toys neatly arranged on shelves. The toys had once belonged to her grandmother, carefully preserved through the decades.
Her grandmother knelt beside the bed, smoothing the quilt with a tender hand. Lizzie stood in the doorway, her small frame looked even smaller against the backdrop of the room. This wasn't her first time staying at her grandparents' house—she had visited many times before with her mother. But now, she was alone.
She stared at the bed silently, her small fingers tightened around her grandfather's hand.
"How about we all sleep together tonight?" he offered gently, noticing the unease in her wide eyes.
Their room was on the other side of the long hall. The space was modest but warm, with a heavy quilt draped over the bed and a soft lamplight casting a golden glow. Her grandfather pulled back the covers, and her grandmother helped Lizzie settle in the middle of the bed.
"There we go," her grandmother murmured, gently tucking the quilt snugly around Lizzie.
She curled up, her small form nearly swallowed by the large bed and heavy layers. Her grandfather sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, squeezing Lizzie's hand gently. "We'll be right back," he said, his voice low and steady. "Just for a little while."
Their footsteps creaked faintly down the stairs as they left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Downstairs, the living room was still warm from the fire crackling in the hearth. The flames casting shadows on the walls, their light flickering against the framed photographs and well-worn furniture. Lizzie's grandparents sat together on the sofa, their hands clasped tightly. For a while, they didn't speak, the weight of the day pressing down on them like a heavy shroud.
When her grandmother finally broke the silence, her voice trembled. "What are we going to do, Henry?"
Henry shook his head, his gaze fixed on the fire. "We'll do our best," he said quietly. "That's all we can do."
Tears streaked down her cheeks as she clutched her husband's hand. Henry wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. The two of them stayed that way, letting their grief spill out in the warmth of the firelight, careful not to let their sorrow reach Lizzie.
Upstairs, Lizzie lay wide awake in the large bed, her small body dwarfed by the heavy quilt. She stared at the ceiling, the faint hum of the house's electricity filling the quiet. Her thoughts swirled in a chaotic mix of confusion and sadness. Her mother's voice echoed in her mind, faint and fleeting, like a melody she couldn't quite remember. Every time she closed her eyes, flashes of the storm came back to her mind, with rocks rolling and the car being swallowed by gravel. Lizzie squeezed her eyes, hoping that when she opened them again, it would all be just a nightmare.
She burrowed deeper under the heavy quilt, her small hands clutching the fabric tightly around her. The faint hum of the house had stilled, and the ghostly whispers of her thoughts seemed to dissolve into an eerie silence. Everything was suddenly silent, too silent. Something started tickling her foot.
Lizzie froze, her breath caught in her chest. Slowly, she lowered the quilt from over her head, her wide eyes peeking out cautiously. Her lips parted in a small, breathless "oh."
The old wooden ceiling was gone, replaced by an endless night sky sprinkled with stars. She sat up, realizing her bed had disappeared, leaving only the heavy quilt behind. In its place was a soft carpet of grass dotted with violet flowers, which stretched endlessly in that valley.
Lizzie stood up, her small toes sinking into the cool, damp earth. It was quiet—eerily so, save for the gentle rustling of petals. A strange breeze brushed against her face, carrying an almost imperceptible whisper. It called to her, soft yet insistent, slowly guiding her though the garden.
The flowers gave way to a clearing where a colossal tree stood, its golden leaves glowing faintly in the starlight. Its thick root seemed to hum with life, and from its sprawling branches hung translucent spheres, swaying gently with the breeze.
Lizzie tilted her head, curiosity overcoming hesitation. She reached out to touch one of the glowing orbs. The moment her fingers brushed its surface, a warm light enveloped her. She was no longer in the clearing. She was in her mother's lap. Her mother's hands moved through her hair, untangling it. They sat on the grassy lawn outside her grandparents' house, beneath the ancient tree that guarded the back, sunlight spilling over them. Lizzie could hear her mother's voice, soft and melodic, singing a tune she regularly hummed.
"My little flower," her mother murmured, tucking a flower into her daughter's hair.
The warmth of the memory faded like a fleeting breeze, dissolving into the stillness of the golden tree. Lizzie small hand lingering in the air as if trying to hold onto the fragments of what had just slipped away. The silence pressed against her chest, heavy and unrelenting.
Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over as she reached desperately for another memory. Her fingers brushed against the glowing surface of a nearby orbe, but just like the first, it flickered and dissolved into nothing. One by one, they vanished before her touch, each loss amplifying the ache in her chest.
Her hands fell to her sides, trembling. The weight of it all finally broke through, and she crumpled to the soft grass beneath the tree. Her shoulders shook as she cried desperately.
A sudden voice called out for her.
"Uh... hi."
Lizzie gasped, her tear-streaked face snapping up. She spun around to see a figure standing a short distance away.
It was a young man, his posture awkward, as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself. His dark hair was tousled, and he wore a black jacket that looked a size too big, with loose pants and scuffed boots completing the mismatched look. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, and his silver-gray eyes avoided hers, instead darting to the twisting branches of the tree above them.
"Who are you?" Lizzie asked, her voice small and trembling.
"Max," he said after a pause, as though he'd forgotten his own name for a moment. A faint whisper came to mind, "lizzie" he murmured without realizing.
"How do you know my name?"Lizzie sniffled, still crying.
Max scratched the back of his neck, as confused as she was, how did I know? He thought.
"It's... complicated," he muttered. He shifted awkwardly, then sighed. "Look, your... uh, your mum... she's gone."
Lizzie's chest tightened.
"Gone where?" she asked, her voice cracking.
Max's eyes darted to the ground. His mouth opening and closing a few times before he finally said, "She's... not coming back. But..."
Lizzie's tears began to fall in earnest. She stumbled toward him, clinging to the edge of his coat.
"I want mummy back!", she cried, embracing the awkward man.
Max froze. After a moment of hesitation, he crouched down and gave her an awkward hug, patting her head stiffly.
"Uh... there, there?" he mumbled, embarrassed at his own clumsy attempt at comfort.
Lizzie burying her face in his coat, crying endlessly. The weight of her grief pressed against her chest, heavy and inescapable. Max stood stiffly at first, unsure of what to do. But slowly, his arms moved, wrapping around her in an awkward but steady embrace. He didn't say anything. Instead, he let her cry the sorrow away.
It took quite some time until she calmed down. Her tear-streaked face was blotchy and her eyes swollen.
She sniffled, her small hand wiping at her stuffy nose, as she looked up at Max with an expression of exhaustion and somewhat relief.
Max shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, his silver-gray eyes flickering away for a moment. He reached up, fumbling with something around his neck.
He took off a simple necklace—a silver chain with a small skull-shaped pendant—and placed it around Lizzie's neck.
"Here," he said, clearing his throat. "It's... kind of important to me. So... take care of it, okay?"
Lizzie looked at the pendant, then back at Max, her small fingers clutching it tightly.
"It'll keep you safe." he said, drying out her tears with his jacket.
Before Lizzie could ask anything else, the world around her began to shift. The golden leaves faded, the flowers wilted, and the stars flickered out one by one.
Lizzie's body felt light, and slowly started fading away, dissolving into the air.
Max stood in the dim clearing, now eerily quiet. He exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck as the weight of the encounter settled over him. The garden wasted no time. The earth beneath his dark boots rippled, shifting as the remnants of the little girl's space unravelled. And yet, Max didn't move.
His gaze lingered on the spot where Lizzie had disappeared, her sobbing still echoing faintly in his mind. His black jacket was damp from where she'd clung to him."Great", Max muttered, flicking the damp spot with a scowl. "Now my jacket's covered in snot."
He took a step back, but something nagged at him, tugging at the edge of his thoughts. His hand drifted to the Weaver's Shears at his belt, and suddenly, his expression froze.
"Oh, for Death's sake!" he shouted, slapping a hand to his forehead. "I forgot to cut her life thread!"
He looked down at the Shears accusingly, as if they were responsible for his mistake. They gleamed innocently in the dim light, offering no explanation or excuse.
The garden, as always, paid him no mind, shifting and folding itself. With a grumble, Max adjusted his jacket, and trudged forward, the hum of a new soul pulling him into the changing landscape.
When Lizzie opened her eyes, she was back in bed. The morning sunlight spilled through the floral curtains, painting soft golden patterns on the walls. The warmth of the light brushed against her cheeks.
Lizzie sat up slowly, her small fingers brushing against the pendant resting against her chest. The cool metal felt strangely comforting beneath her fingertips. Her head throbbed faintly, and her face was still puffy from crying, but the unbearable ache in her chest had softened.
The deep rumble of his snores contrasted sharply with the delicate birdsong outside. Lizzie blinked sleepily, turning her head toward the sound. Her grandfather lay sprawled on his side of the bed, his mouth wide open, as if he might swallow the whole house at an moment. His loud, rhythmic snores vibrating through the quilt. She stared at him for a moment, her small hand still clutching the pendant resting against her chest.
Carefully, she slid out from under the heavy quilt, her bare feet touching the cool wooden floor. Her small movements made the bed creak, but her grandfather didn't stir. If anything, his snores grew louder, making Lizzie stifle a giggle as she tiptoed toward the door.
The scent of cake grew stronger as she padded down the hallway and descended the creaky staircase. The comforting warmth of the fire greeted her as she entered the kitchen, where her grandmother was bustling about, her hands dusted with flour.
"Good morning, sweetheart," her grandmother said, glancing over her shoulder with a warm smile. She was carefully placing a fresh vanilla cake onto a cooling rack, its golden crust glistening faintly. She dusted her hands off on her apron and came over, crouching slightly to meet Lizzie's gaze. "Did you sleep well, my love?"
Lizzie nodded, though her expression was uncertain.
Her grandmother's sharp eyes caught the flicker of hesitation. "Grandpa didn't snore too loud, did he?" she teased gently, smoothing Lizzie's bed-tousled hair.
This coaxed a shy smile from Lizzie, who shook her head.
"Good," her grandmother said, straightening up and turning back to the cake. "Breakfast is almost ready!"
Lizzie movied toward a small wooden table in the corner of the kitchen. She paused, her gaze drifting toward the window, where sunlight danced on the dewy leaves of the tree outside. The way the light flickered between the branches was familiar. She frowned slightly, but the feeling was already slipping away.
A soft clatter pulled her attention back. Her grandfather had come downstairs, stretching his arms with a yawn before lowering himself onto one of the chairs.
"Well, good morning to you, sunshine," he said, his voice still thick with sleep. He reached for the newspaper on the table, only to pause and glance toward Lizzie with an exaggerated look of suspicion. "Now, hold on. Did I hear giggling this morning? At my expense?"
Lizzie's lips twitched, but she quickly hid her smile behind her hands.
Her grandmother, still busy near the stove, let out an amused hum. "She had good reason to, sweatheart. You were rattling the roof beams."
"Hmph." Henry huffed dramatically, shaking out the newspaper with an air of mock dignity. "I don't believe it for a second."
Lizzie slid into the chair across from him, her legs swinging slightly. She rested her hands on the table, tracing the grain of the wood with her finger. The smell of vanilla and cinnamon filled the kitchen, making her stomach grumble softly.
Her grandmother set down a small plate in front of her—two slices of toast, buttered and glistening, along with a glass of milk. "Here you go, love. The cake will take a little while to cool down."
Lizzie picked up a piece, nibbling on the edge as she glanced toward her grandfather.
"What do you think about a little trip to the store after this?"
"Oh, that's a great idea!" her grandma responded, approaching the table. "Your grandpa has been organizing the garden, there are a lot of new flowers since the last time you came!"
Lizzie perked up slightly at the mention of the garden, her small fingers still curled around the edge of her toast. She had always liked the flowers around the house—bright patches of color that danced in the wind—but something about her grandmother's words made her pause.
Since the last time she came?
The phrase felt strange, like she had been somewhere far away rather than just... home.
She frowned slightly, trying to remember how long it had been since she last ran through the garden paths. Had she ever? She must have. She could almost picture it—sunlight, petals brushing against her fingertips, the scent of earth and grass—but the memory felt blurred, like looking through fogged glass.
Before she could dwell on it for too long, her grandfather cleared his throat, standing up with a grunt. "Well then, it's settled," he said, pushing his chair back. "We'll go down to the market, pick up a few things, and then take a stroll through the garden when we get back. Sound good, Lizzie?"
Lizzie hesitated, then nodded slowly, while munching her toast.
After they finished eating, Lizzie followed her grandfather to the door, where he knelt down to help her zip up her coat. His large, calloused hands worked carefully, tugging the zipper up to her chin before smoothing the fabric over her shoulders.
Lizzie stood still, her eyes drifting as she watched his fingers move. The moment stretched, slow and weightless—
And then, she saw it.
For the briefest instant, her grandfather wasn't there at all.
The hands guiding the zipper weren't his—they were smaller, softer. The rough scent of his wool coat faded, replaced by something lighter, something faintly sweet.
Lizzie's breath hitched.
She looked up, and instead of her grandfather's familiar, weathered face, there was someone else kneeling before her—a soft, ghostly figure with warm, kind eyes.
Mummy.
The word surfaced in her mind before she could stop it. It should have made sense. It should have felt right. But the figure flickered—like a candle's glow caught in a draft—and when Lizzie blinked, it was gone.
Her grandfather was in front of her again, his hands still adjusting her collar. Lizzie swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper.
"...Where's Mummy?"
Her grandfather's hands stilled.
A heavy pause filled the space between them.
Then, just as gently as before, he tugged the collar of her coat into place, his voice steady but quiet. "Come on, love. Let's get going."
Lizzie didn't ask again. And they soon left.
The cobbled streets of town were quieter than usual, weighed down by the lingering presence of the disaster. Even the autumn breeze felt heavier, carrying the scent of damp earth and lingering dust.
Lizzie held her grandfather's hand as they walked past houses and storefronts, some untouched, others barely standing. Wooden beams jutted out from collapsed rooftops, and thick streaks of dried mud clung to stone walls where the landslide had rushed through.
Some homes stood abandoned, their doors left open as if the families who once lived there had fled in such a hurry, they'd forgotten to close them. Others were outside, working in quiet determination—men shoveling the last of the dried mud from their doorsteps, women scrubbing at soot-stained windows, children in rain boots splashing through the muddy streets, their laughter echoing thought the street.
Lizzie heard murmured conversations as they passed.
"The whole side of the hill just... gave way. Never seen anything like it."
"Some families had to move in with neighbors. They say the foundations are too weak now."
"And that poor girl—"
Her grandfather gave her hand a gentle squeeze, as if to shield her from words he knew she could hear. But Lizzie didn't react. The words felt somewhat distant.
A woman at a bakery stall noticed them and stepped forward, wiping her flour-dusted hands on her apron.
"Oh, Henry," she said, her voice warm but laced with pity. "And little Lizzie..."
She crouched to Lizzie's height, her kind eyes searching the girl's expression.
"Oh, sweetheart," she murmured, a sad smile on her lips. "You're being so strong."
Lizzie blinked. She knew she was supposed to say something. Everyone had been saying things like that to her. But no words came.
Lizzie's grip on her grandfather's sleeve tightened. The woman trailed off, realizing the girl wouldn't answer. Lizzie just stared, her expression blank.
Her grandfather cleared his throat. "Thank you, Margaret," he said politely, resting a hand on Lizzie's shoulder. "We should keep moving."
Margaret hesitated, then nodded. She gave Lizzie's arm a soft pat before standing. "You take care, sweetheart."
As they walked on, Henry spoke softly. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to, love. People mean well, but that doesn't mean you have to be ready."
Lizzie didn't reply. She just looked down at her shoes, watching the damp cobblestones pass beneath her feet. Their shadows almost seemed to walk on their own.
They reached the flower stall, where an elderly florist arranged fresh bouquets in wooden crates. The scent of flowers mixed with the crisp autumn air.
Her grandfather knelt beside Lizzie. "Go on, pick some," he said gently.
Lizzie hesitated before stepping forward, her small hands hovering over the flowers.
"These ones," she said quietly, pointing to the violets.
The florist smiled, carefully wrapping the bouquet in brown paper before tucking a single violet into Lizzie's hand.
"Here," she said kindly. "A little bloom just for you."
Lizzie turned the flower over in her fingers. The soft petals brushed against her skin, stirring something just beneath the surface of her thoughts.
A memory.
She could almost see it—someone's hands, warm and gentle, tucking a flower behind her ear. She squeezed the violet slightly, but the image was already slipping away, fading like the last traces of a dream. Lizzie frowned, but she didn't know why.
Her grandfather thanked the florist, and they made their way back home. The further they walked from the market, the quieter the streets became.
Lizzie shifted the flowers in her arms, pressing them close to her chest. The air felt heavier now, colder.
Something was watching. She didn't know how she knew, only that she did.
Her small feet slowed as they passed an alleyway, its entrance yawning dark and empty between two worn brick buildings. A deep shadow pooled there, unmoving, yet thick like ink.
Something was there.
She turned her head slightly, just enough to glance out of the corner of her eye. A shape—too tall, too still.
Lizzie shivered.
Her grandfather must have noticed because he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, tucking her closer to his side.
"Cold?" he asked.
Lizzie nodded, though that wasn't really the reason.
"We're almost home," he assured her.
Lizzie kept walking, her hands tightening around the flower, her heart thudding a little harder in her chest.
They were almost reaching the small house, but she could still feel that they weren't walking alone.