When I was very young, my father was coming to find me in the living room. I grew impatient as he was delayed. I saw him stop completely still at the back door. He made no sound, and his eyes were wide. He stared at me with a look of deep fear.
He let out a heavy breath, as if he had been holding it for a long time. I asked him what happened. He turned to me, his face pale, and said, “I just saw a small girl in a white dress. She was smiling and picking flowers that weren’t there.” He told me she looked straight at him and then faded through the garden wall, as if she had vanished.
That was the only time he ever saw her. But sometimes, when we are in the garden, the air grows cold and we feel we are not alone. I often sense unseen eyes watching me. We do not know the history of this land, or if something from the past remains here with us.