I was twelve the first time I saw an echo.
October in Ashcroft comes early. Not the kind that turns leaves into postcards or air into cider. The kind that makes the sky feel too close. Makes everything feel colder than it should. It was that kind of day. Bone-damp and quiet, the kind of quiet that crawls into your sleeves and makes you wish someone would say your name just to prove you exist.
I wasn't supposed to be out. My foster placement at the time had a curfew and a rule about wandering, mostly because they thought I would steal something or disappear again. I'd only meant to clear my head. Stretch my legs. Maybe breathe.
I cut through the empty lot behind the Ashcroft train station, a shortcut between nowhere and nowhere. That building was already half-forgotten by then, boarded in places, lit by a single flickering sign that still insisted it was open. It had a name, so it still needed sweeping. That was how the town worked. Keep the name, pretend the rot isn't there.
I didn't expect anyone else to be out. Not with the cold cutting through like it was. But there she was.
A girl. Standing alone in front of the main doors.
I saw her from a distance at first, just a still shape in the fog. Black hoodie, jeans, long brown hair that didn't move in the wind. I slowed down instinctively, something in the back of my brain hitting the brakes before I could figure out why.
She wasn't doing anything.
Just standing.
Facing the door like she was waiting for a train that hadn't come in decades.
I didn't expect to see anything like this. But it was the first time I'd seen it.
She turned.
Not slowly, like a ghost in a horror movie. Just turned. Like a person hearing their name.
And looked right at me.
Her face was pale. Freckles. A bruise under her left eye, faded purple-green. Her expression wasn't sad. Wasn't angry. It was waiting.
And then, behind her, something moved.
More butterflies. A dozen now, then more. They spiraled up from the pavement like smoke, glowing faintly in the gray light. They circled her, fluttering too slow, too silent. Like they were underwater.
I wanted to run. I wanted to shout. But I couldn't do either.
Because she stepped forward.
One step. Then another. Not walking so much as gliding, like she was being pulled. The butterflies followed, trailing behind her like a veil.
I backed up. My heel caught on the curb, and I stumbled, caught myself against the chain-link fence. The metal bit into my palm, cold and sharp, real in a way nothing else felt right then.
She stopped ten feet away.
We stared at each other.
And then she spoke.
"You can see me."
It wasn't a question.
Her voice was wrong. Flat. Like it was coming from somewhere far away and being replayed through bad speakers.
I tried to answer. Couldn't. My throat had gone dry.
She tilted her head, studying me. The butterflies drifted closer, and I felt the cold sharpen. My breath fogged.
"You shouldn't be able to," she said. "No one else can."
I forced myself to speak. "What… what are you?"
Her expression didn't change. But something flickered in her eyes. Something alive.
"I'm what's left," she said.
The butterflies swirled faster now, rising around her like a storm. The air grew colder. My skin prickled.
And then, just as suddenly as she'd appeared, she was gone.
The butterflies scattered, fading into the fog like embers.
The train station stood empty again. Silent. Like nothing had happened.
But I knew better.
* * *
I ran.
I didn't stop until I was back at the foster house, chest heaving, hands shaking so hard I could barely get the key in the lock.
No one noticed. They never did.
That night, I looked her up. Took me three tries on the library computer before I found her.
Sarah Holt. Fifteen years old. Missing for six months. Last seen near the train station.
There was a photo. Same face. Same hoodie. Same bruise under her eye.
And in the comments section, buried under condolences and conspiracy theories, someone had written: "She loved butterflies."
I closed the browser. Deleted the history.
But I couldn't unsee her.
And I knew, deep down, that she wouldn't be the last.
THE END