Can you hear it? The same old squeaking noise that I’ve been listening to for the past five years. I glance outside my window, half expecting my little sister to be sitting on the rusty old swing set. That swing set has been haunting me, ever since my little sister died in that car crash. There it sits. The red seats swiftly swinging to and fro. The squeaks echo in my head, an everlasting echo. I sit at my desk, typing away on my computer; hoping that the time I spend here isn’t wasted. I want to become an author, but that squeaking… That squeaking is the disturbance in my way, the sour milk in my cereal. It weaves its way into every single detail that I write. I hope that this time isn’t wasted. Two years, I have spent on this book. Too long, I say… Squeak! I cringe at the loudness, the disruption to my thoughts. I peer outside again to see a small girl sitting on it. I stare, dazed, at the stranger. She looks up and I gasp. She has her eyes, her face, her smile.

“Jenny?...” I whisper,” What do you want?” I suck in a mouthful of air, close my eyes, count to ten and the little girl is gone.