Pink

A wee little chiller

Spelk

by K. A. Laity

They only ever found her mitten. Small, pink, and caked with mud, it became the symbol of something that could never be recovered. Even more than the haunting photo, blurred by movement so it looked as if the matching hand were disappearing, the pink mitten could move many to tears even a year later when the trail had dried up and hope evaporated.

Millie had been a normal enough girl; too young to have had an impact beyond her smiling face glimpsed by neighbours as the Jorgesens went in and out of their small, neat house before vanishing into their hatchback. Carol divorced Frank about that time. People clucked their tongues: a shame, really. Yet it seemed to happen a lot. Tragedy either brought people together, Joyce Wynant repeated a few too many times, or it pushed them apart.

Carol moved away with the boys. Maybe…

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