Phoebe stood by the window, her small hands pressed against the cold glass. The world outside seemed to mirror the emptiness inside her as she watched the black-clad figures leave the house one by one. Her mother's funeral had drawn to a close, but the dull ache in her heart remained.
Margaret, her father's new wife, moved around the kitchen with a practiced efficiency that seemed at odds with the warmth of the setting sun. Her presence in the house was still unfamiliar, like a misplaced puzzle piece. "Dinner's ready, Phoebe," she called, her voice echoing in the empty spaces of the house. Phoebe entered the kitchen, her eyes lowered, and sat at the table, the silence between them stretching like an unspoken question.
Phoebe clutched the armrest of the sofa, Margaret standing frozen with the phone to her ear. "There's been an accident," she whispered, her voice cracking. Phoebe felt the room spin, her world crumbling around her as the storm raged on outside.
Phoebe wandered into the backyard, drawn by a strange compulsion. As she sat on the damp grass, a cricket with an iridescent sheen hopped beside her. "Hello, Phoebe," a voice murmured, soft and familiar. Startled, she looked around, only to find no one but the cricket moving its tiny mandibles. "It's me, your father," the cricket continued, its voice a gentle echo of the past.
Phoebe listened, her heart aching with longing and disbelief. "How can this be?" she whispered, tears pooling in her eyes. The cricket chirped softly. "I'm here to help you, to guide you. Margaret isn't as bad as you think. Give her a chance," it advised. Phoebe nodded slowly, feeling a flicker of hope ignite within her.
Phoebe watched Margaret at the stove, her movements no longer foreign but familiar. "Would you like to help?" Margaret asked, offering a tentative smile. Phoebe hesitated, then nodded, stepping forward. As they worked side by side, the shadows of the past began to lift, replaced by a tentative understanding and the whisper of a cricket in the garden.
