St. Agnes Home.
Closed after the fire.
Six months ago.
The boys had been declared lost in the blaze. Closed coffins. No viewing. Only ashes and a bracelet returned in a sealed box.
The mother shook her head violently.
“No… no, they died…”
But the girl only blinked at her, calm, almost patient.
“I take care of them.”
The father grabbed her shoulder.
And froze.
Something was tied around her wrist.
A faded blue friendship string.
One of his sons’.
The world tilted.
The mother collapsed to her knees in the wet leaves, screaming without sound, while the father stared at the impossible thread like it was burning through reality itself.
The girl finally turned toward the gate again.
And spoke softly, almost kindly:
“If you want to see them… come with me.”
Then she walked into the rain.
And the cemetery felt emptier than it ever had before.
