The Little Girl by the Marble Markers
On a quiet Saturday, as Michael gently wiped dust from the markers, a small voice whispered behind him.
“Sir… excuse me?”
“What is it?” he asked.
She swallowed hard. “It’s about… these girls.”
Michael frowned. “What about them?”
“They’re not… here,” she said softly. “They live on my street.”
For a moment, the world felt impossibly still.
“What did you say?” The words caught in his throat.
She pointed to the names. “I know these names. There’s a lady who calls for two girls who look just like the ones on these stones. They live in a little blue house. I see them all the time.”
Michael’s heart pounded so fiercely he could hear it.
“No, sir,” she whispered, tears brimming. “My mom’s sick. I don’t want anything except a little help for her. I’m not lying.”
He almost walked away. Almost. But honesty shone plainly in her eyes.
“How much do you need?” he asked quietly.
“Twenty dollars,” she murmured.
He handed her a hundred. “Show me where they live. If you’re telling the truth, I’ll give you much more.”
“You’ll see,” she said.
The Small Blue House
Following her directions, Michael drove across town. With every mile, his breath grew shallower. Eventually, they stopped in front of a worn blue house with peeling paint and a yard scattered with old toys.
Michael’s legs shook as he approached the door and knocked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Continue reading…
