The figure turned. She had no face, only the shimmering reflection of the water where features should be. Flora reached out and pressed a small, warm hand against the cold glass of the window.
As the final, mournful notes of the song faded into the wind, the nursery door creaked shut behind Elara. The candle blew out. In the sudden dark, the only sound left was the rhythmic drip, drip, drip of water onto the rug, and the faint, ghostly humming of a melody that never truly ends.
The mist over the blackwater pond didn't just sit; it breathed, curling around the weeping willow’s roots like pale, seeking fingers.
"Do you hear her, Miss?" Miles whispered, not turning around. "She’s looking for the place where she fell."
"She’s come to take us to the shaded bower," the girl chirped, a terrifyingly sweet smile pulling at her lips.
“We lay my love and I, beneath the weeping willow tree...”