The ducks began to stir. Nap time was over. Or maybe they just felt her presence—the glowing “ghost” I could no longer deny. My husband’s dead wife.

“It’ll be all right, Judith,” Horace said quietly. He squeezed my hand gently before his hand relaxed.

The bird’s wings broke inside my chest, at last falling still. “Horace?” I whispered. “It’s her, isn’t it?” I blinked and rubbed my eyes, still hoping for this to be some trick of the light. What I was seeing was impossible. Lucy was dead. Her body would be nothing but bones by now. They’d both been buried—she and their son—all those years ago. Miles and miles and miles away.

My husband sighed. His body slumped against mine.