Chapter 8 No.8

Mrs. Rose was pulling blue tarps over crates of oranges. The stand was illuminated by a single, naked yellow bulb that swung gently in the wind.

"Nana," Hoyt called out. "Don't lock up yet."

The old woman turned. Her face was a map of wrinkles, lined with age and kindness. She wore a thick wool cardigan and a floral apron.

She smiled when she saw Hoyt. "You need apples, honey? Or did you just come to scold me for working late?"

Then, her gaze shifted. She saw the figure standing behind Hoyt.

Eva stepped into the light. She lowered her hood. Her wet hair framed her face-pale skin, wide dark eyes, a sharp jawline.

Nana's smile froze. Her hands went slack.

The basket of apples she was holding slipped from her fingers. It hit the ground with a dull thud. Red apples rolled across the wet pavement, scattering like spilled blood.

"Amirah?" Nana whispered.

The name hung in the damp air.

Eva's eyes filled with tears. She shook her head slowly. No. Not Amirah. Just the leftovers.

Nana took a step forward, her hands trembling violently. "You... you have her eyes. Her face."

Hoyt watched the scene unfold. He looked from Eva to Nana, piecing it together. The resemblance was uncanny. Eva wasn't just a random runaway. She was a ghost. Amirah was the daughter who had left twenty years ago and never came back.

Eva stepped over the scattered apples. She reached out a hand.

Nana was too shocked to move. She stared at Eva as if she were a hallucination that would vanish if she blinked.

The rain started to pick up again, tapping a rhythm on the tin roof of the stand.

Hoyt moved quietly. He crouched down and began picking up the apples, giving them space, but his ears were tuned to every sound, every breath.

Eva opened her mouth to speak. She wanted to say, It's me. I'm Eva. But the silence in her throat was a brick wall. Nothing came out but a ragged exhale.

She tapped her throat with two fingers.

Nana looked confused, tears pooling in her eyes. "Can't you speak, child?"

Eva shook her head sadly.

She reached into her damp jeans pocket. She pulled out the folded, crumpled piece of paper she had written on the bus, just in case.

Hoyt stood up, holding the basket of apples. He watched them, feeling like an intruder in a moment too private for strangers.