A Girl Moves On
Here, cold and wet at the bottom of the well, a sharp object jabs her in the back.
Maya pulls it free as a bolt of lightning ignites the sky. Catching the light, she can see five distinct metacarpals of a small hand.
The man’s daughter.
This abandoned well has been her resting place since that fateful day in 1973.
Maya allows herself a tear for the girl and a life lost, but she will not let herself suffer the same fate. Cradling the girl’s hand in one palm, Maya struggles to slide her phone from her pocket.
The screen is black. Maya’s phone is dead.
The wind howls. The rain seems to be coming down harder now. Even if she were to shout, no one will hear her this far out in the country with a storm raging.
“Help me.”
Maya doesn’t realize she has spoken aloud until she feels a tingling sensation, almost as if someone is clasping her hand that holds the phone.
It flickers on.
She swipes to the phone screen and dials.
As she finishes the call, Maya issues an audible ‘thank you.’ She feels the tingling dissipate. The girl is gone.
