The broken umbrella bounced slowly, lazily down the sidewalk, looking almost as if it were being rolled away by a little ghost.
Following after the umbrella was a little boy, tears and rain streaking down his face. He was oblivious to the poor condition of the umbrella - the broken frame, the tattered cloth. He only knew that his mother had told him to be sure he didn't lose it, and he was bound and determined to listen to her.
Never mind that the wind kept snatching the umbrella away just as he reached out to grab it. Never mind that the umbrella had been battered to the point of complete uselessness.
Never mind that it had been three years since Mama told him not to lose it.
Never mind that Papa only shook his head every time the boy asked when Mama would finally come back.
The boy stubbornly refused to believe what Papa had said three years ago, the day Mama told him not to lose the umbrella. When he came home, hoping she wouldn't notice the little rip, and Papa told him quietly that the wet roads had been too much, andÉ
Now Papa didn't tell that story any more. The boy still didn't believe it, and he was sure someday, someday Papa would tell the truth. There must be something more, something else. Papa had to be lying. Had to be.
Because Mama was still alive, and she'd be furious if he lost the umbrella. She might be mad about how damaged it was, too - he remembered being afraid she'd be mad at him for that little rip he'd put in it, and now it was in far worse shape - but then again, he'd never promised to bring the umbrella back in one piece. He'd only promised to bring it back.
The wind snatched the umbrella up again, and this time it didn't come down. The broken umbrella banged against a fence, bounced over, and finally came to rest in a tree, hanging just high enough to taunt the boy, clearly out of his reach.
Stubbornly, he marched through the open gate of the fence and walked up to the tree. Unfortunately, this was not a tree for climbing; no matter how high the boy jumped, he couldn't quite reach even the lowest branch.
"Jamie."
He turned. Instantly, his eyes filled again with tears, but this time it was not over the distress of the lost umbrella.
"Jamie, it's all right." She smiled gently at him, reached out and wrapped her arms around him. "I'll take care of the umbrella, okay? You go on home. Go back home to Papa. He'll miss you if you're late."
He buried his head in her shoulder. "Come home with me." he whimpered. He turned his face up to hers. "Please, Mama? Come home with me."
"I can't." She kissed his damp forehead, pushed a few strands of wet hair out of the way. "I love you, but I can't come home. You go on. Go on, it's getting dark out."
Despite his confusion, the boy decided to obey her. He had barely made it out of the cemetery gates when the urge to run as fast as he could overtook him, and he bolted home.
His father was ghostly pale when he opened the door, and as soon as he saw Jamie he snatched the little boy up in his arms. "Thank God you're all right!" He looked down at his little son and frowned. "But where's your umbrella?"
"Mama told me to leave it with her." he explained simply, as if that was the most obvious explanation in the world.
It made no sense to the boy's father, but he decided not to argue. After all, he'd just seen on the news the only thing those eight recently murdered children had in common - besides that they had all been killed on a rainy day - was that they had been carrying umbrellas, and if his wife's spirit had told their son to leave the umbrella, then that was good enough an explanation.