Talk To Me

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Twenty years ago

The summer air carried the scent of damp earth as Oliver stepped barefoot across the cool grass, the blades wet beneath his small feet. He cradled a frog between his palms, feeling its slick skin twitch against his fingers.

"What are you doing?"

The sudden voice made him jump, his grip loosening just enough for the frog to wriggle free. It landed with a soft thud in the grass and disappeared into the shadows of the yard. Oliver turned, his heart still thumping from the surprise.

"Lydia," he exhaled, relaxing when he saw her standing a few feet away. Her black hair clung to her jaw, dripping water onto her yellow bathing suit. She looked different—her lips had a strange bluish tint, and her normally tanned skin was pale.

"I had a frog," Oliver explained, wiping his damp hands on his shorts. "She kept going near the road, and Mom says the road is dangerous."

"My mom says the same thing," Lydia said softly.

Oliver rubbed his stomach with one hand, groaning slightly. "I think I had too much syrup with my pancakes." He glanced at the ground where the frog had escaped, then back at Lydia. "When did you get back from your trip?"

Lydia smiled, but something about it felt off. The wind stirred around them, rustling the leaves in the trees.

"I don't think I am," she said, shaking her head slightly.

Oliver frowned. "You don't think you are what?"

"I was wading in the lake," Lydia continued as if she hadn't heard him. "Thinking of you." She tilted her head. "I think I slipped. I tried to remember how you taught me to swim and—" She vanished.

Oliver stood frozen, his breath caught in his throat. The space where Lydia had been felt colder, as if the air had changed. A shiver ran down his spine. The wind picked up, brushing against his cheeks, making his gray eyes water. He blinked hard, twice, his mind struggling to process what had just happened.

"Mom!" Oliver's voice cracked as he turned and ran toward the house, his small legs pumping against the grass. "Mom!"

The porch steps creaked beneath his weight as he climbed them, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his brown shorts. He barely remembered to avoid the railing. The front door swung open just as he reached it.

"Oli," his mother, Sophia, said, wiping her flour-dusted hands on her pink apron. "Daddy told you not to use the front door. The railing's still wet."

"I didn't touch it," he blurted, breathless. "Lydia was here."

His mother's expression shifted slightly, her gaze flickering across the yard. "Where is she?"

"I don't know," he mumbled.

Sophia sighed. "Oli, I need to know if we have guests. Was Mrs. Baker with her?"

"No." His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt.

"So where is Lydia?" she asked again, firmer this time.

Oliver hesitated before clicking his fingers together. "She disappeared. Just like that."

Sophia shook her head, a soft, knowing smile tugging at her lips. "Oh, Oli, you're watching too many movies. Lydia comes back tomorrow. I know you miss her." Her hand rested gently on his shoulder, warm and steady. "Maybe you just imagined that she visited you," she said, pulling him into a soft hug. "Come on, I baked you cookies."

Oliver hesitated, glancing back toward the yard, the grass swaying gently under the breeze. His stomach twisted—not from too much syrup, but from something deeper.