The phone rings, bringing me back to my senses. I dare to answer. A distant hint of a voice floats through the static. One I haven’t heard in years. I try not to panic.
“Have you read the news…”
Although unseen, I offer a redundant nod of immediate comprehension. I, too, have viewed the impossible picture. How foolish to believe that all of this was really at an end.
The story’s headline and opening paragraph read like some oblique zen haiku;
MYSTERY GIRL FOUND. MISSING YOUTH RETURNS AT LAST. TWENTY YEARS LATER!
In the picture, there’s no mistaking that face. Age, it would appear, has not been kind, and yet there is still an echo of the child she once was. The child that I once knew. Trapped somewhere behind those sad and tired eyes.
It’s her. Definitely.
It’s Rose.
The other end of the line seems to have descended into meaningless babble, but I can’t really be sure. The words are nothing but white noise, my aching brain otherwise engaged attempting to comprehend what all this really means.
How a piece of the past I had finally let go of has managed to burst straight into today, changing everything forever once again.
The journalist has more questions than answers. Rose herself seems unable to offer any clues. Found walking alone in the forest, with no idea how she came to be there. Amnesia is mentioned; the word miraculous is used more than once.
I, more than anyone, know how true this really is.
“It can’t be her!” she hisses.
No. Of course, it can’t be. Because we buried Rose nearly twenty years ago.
“Have you read the news…”
Although unseen, I offer a redundant nod of immediate comprehension. I, too, have viewed the impossible picture. How foolish to believe that all of this was really at an end.
The story’s headline and opening paragraph read like some oblique zen haiku;
MYSTERY GIRL FOUND. MISSING YOUTH RETURNS AT LAST. TWENTY YEARS LATER!
In the picture, there’s no mistaking that face. Age, it would appear, has not been kind, and yet there is still an echo of the child she once was. The child that I once knew. Trapped somewhere behind those sad and tired eyes.
It’s her. Definitely.
It’s Rose.
The other end of the line seems to have descended into meaningless babble, but I can’t really be sure. The words are nothing but white noise, my aching brain otherwise engaged attempting to comprehend what all this really means.
How a piece of the past I had finally let go of has managed to burst straight into today, changing everything forever once again.
The journalist has more questions than answers. Rose herself seems unable to offer any clues. Found walking alone in the forest, with no idea how she came to be there. Amnesia is mentioned; the word miraculous is used more than once.
I, more than anyone, know how true this really is.
“It can’t be her!” she hisses.
No. Of course, it can’t be. Because we buried Rose nearly twenty years ago.
