The Guily Ones

Ghosts from the Past

I blinked against the blinding light, squinting as it seared my vision. It was so bright, so piercing, that it felt like shards of glass driving into my eyes. Instinctively, I lowered my gaze, desperate for relief. And then, I saw her.

A little girl, no older than three or four, was running through a vast, sunlit meadow. Her laughter carried on the breeze as her hair streamed behind her like a golden ribbon. She glanced over her shoulder, giggling as someone chased after her, arms outstretched.

Suddenly, she was scooped up and spun in the air, her delighted squeals filling the space around us.

"Dad?"

The word left my lips in a whisper, and my chest tightened as tears welled in my eyes. My heart pounded in recognition. It was him—my father. He held the girl tightly, his face radiating pure joy as he hugged and kissed her. Hugged and kissed me.

"Dad!" I called out, my voice trembling as I took a step toward them. "Dad!"

I began to run. The sight of him—a man who had become little more than a fading memory, someone I had last seen when I was barely five years old—overwhelming.

"Dad, it's me! Ashley!" I shouted, desperation lacing my words.

But he didn't react.

"Dad!" My voice cracked as panic rose within me. I reached out, wanting to touch him, to force him to see me. But before I could, icy fingers closed around my shoulder.

"He can't hear you, sweetheart."

I spun around, startled, and found myself staring at a woman. She was young—no older than thirty-five maybe—dressed in a familiar dark blue dress. Her eyes, so sharp and bright, mirrored my own. The resemblance was unsettling.

"Granny?" I breathed, my voice shaking.

She laughed, a light, melodious sound that sent a chill down my spine.

"Oh, how long it's been since anyone called me that," she said warmly. "Time on Earth moves so quickly... Sometimes, I forget."

Her words were cryptic, and my confusion must have been written all over my face because she chuckled again, slipping an arm around my waist. "Oh, sweetheart, you're still so young. Come along, my dear. We need to talk."

Before I could protest, she was guiding me through the meadow, the scenery shifting around us like a dream. A small house materialized in the distance. Her house. The farmhouse in Georgia.

My breath hitched as nostalgia crashed over me like a wave. Memories of long, lazy summers spent here surged through my mind. She led me to the veranda, where a cozy little table was set. Tea, water, sandwiches, and an assortment of pastries—Baba au Rhum, her favorite—were neatly arranged on a lace cloth.

"Sit down, sweetie," she said, gesturing to the empty chair across from her.

I hesitated but obeyed, watching warily as she poured tea into two delicate china cups. She took a sip, her eyes never leaving mine, waiting for me to speak.

"Hi," I finally managed, my cheeks burning as I awkwardly lifted the teacup to my lips. The tea was sweet and floral, with hints of elderflower and lime.

She grinned. "Hi, sweetheart."

Reaching across the table, she took my hand in hers. Her expression grew serious, her eyes searching mine.

"Don't you have any questions?"

Thousands. But I didn't know where to start.

"Where am I?" I asked finally.