"The baby&. Hold on a second," Officer Milton flounders for a moment with the realization. "So the baby&"

　　"Uh-huh."

　　"... in the box&"

　　"Uh-huh."

　　"... is the child of Sarah Atwood&"

　　"Uh-huh."

　　"... and Reginald Soward?"

　　"Right."

　　"So the old rumors of an affair between them are true?"

　　"It looks that way, yes."

　　"And the baby`s name&"

　　"Yes?"

　　"... his name was Raemond?"

　　"Yes."

　　"Like, they named him Raemond?"

　　"That`s what the note says."

　　"Like Rae` Raemond?"

　　"Yes."

　　"As in Raesport?"

　　"Yup."

　　"... What the crap!?" Officer Milton starts bouncing with excited energy for this revelation. "Do we know when the town was officially named? Like, was the town named after the baby, or the baby named after the town? Or&. Oh my-! So the town wasn`t named for either of the women?! I mean, you know what I mean, right? Not the mistress nor the missus. The town was named for the baby? Well&. I guess we don`t know that for certain."

　　"Milton, look at this," Officer Boyd walks over holding his phone out. "City website."

　　A few seconds tick by before Officer Milton`s eyes blow wide. "Nah-uh! No way!"

　　"What is it?" I ask.

　　"Listen to this: The City of Raesport was founded by Mr. Reginald Soward who served as the town mayor for over twenty years from the date of the town`s establishment on July 10th, 1875 until his retirement during the summer of 1896. This note is dated the third of July that very same year?! What are the odds, Lottie?! One week later, Mr. Soward establishes a town and calls it Raesport? It sounds like Mr. Soward had a guilty conscience."

　　I nod, feeling weirdly dazed and disoriented through the "police investigation". It`s hardly an investigation. Mostly it`s a pair of officers geeking out about& murder? But then, that seems wrong&.

　　I`m feeling irritable. I`m feeling disturbed. I`m feeling an irrational anger for the casualness with which they are discussing little Rae`s death. Killed by his father. Loved by his mother. A mother who risked everything to bring him to the point of viability for the era they lived in before sharing her secret. A young woman who agonized over her child, prayed for him and had dreams for him before she`d even felt him move in her "swollen belly". And I feel that pain. I hurt for her loss. I hurt for her rejection. I hurt& because I understand.

　　"Whoa! Lottie! Are you alright?!" There is a hand gripping my elbow. And then another hand against my back.

　　Erased by time.

　　"Lottie, let`s get you a chair."

　　Forgotten. Unknown. Unwanted.

　　"Here, Lottie, have a seat. Take a few deep breaths."

　　Meaningless. In the end. We leave our mark. We hope it matters to someone. And then we are gone. The next generation decides if we`ve left behind anything that`s worth keeping. If they deem us worthy, we are survived. If not, we are erased.

　　"Hey, Lottie, how are you feeling? You almost passed out there."

　　"I`m fine. It was just a dizzy spell. I think I need some water, but I`m fine now," I say as nonchalantly as I can.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

　　"Do you get these dizzy spells often?" Milton says with concern. Mid thirties. Early wrinkles around the eyes, early laugh lines, early scowl lines. Mid thirties. Thomas. If things were different&. Like he`s visiting me, fussing over my fading health. Fading&. Fading away, slow and silent. Memories slipping, health failing, spirits sinking&. Fading into obscurity. "Lottie? Hey, I brought you some water."

　　"Thank you. You`re a good boy."

　　"Huh?"

　　"Sorry. Don`t know where that came from." I swallow that water, feeling it roll past my tongue and down my throat. "What do you plan to do with the body?"

　　"Well, I think it makes sense to start with bringing it down to the station. The diaries too, if you`re willing."

　　"That`s fine. I`m done with them."

　　"I think they will probably be returned to you, so if you want to display them or something&. The note found with Raemond too. That will be returned. I think all the historically significant things should return. Maybe the body should be buried here at the house as well? Maybe the city will want to give him a proper grave with a monument explaining his significance. I don`t know. I`m just spouting off thoughts. Feel free to tell me to shut up," Milton chuckles to himself, the sound trailing off. "You know, Lottie, you really don`t look so good. Is there anything else I can do for you before we go?"

　　"No. Thank you. I think I`ll just rest. Thank you for helping me with the floor."

　　"Oh, we hardly did anything. You`d already done most of it!"

　　"All the same, thank you."

　　"Well, you`re welcome. I guess& we`ll get out of your hair. Take care of yourself, though."

　　"I will. Thank you, officers."

　　They leave; I listen; she speaks.

　　Lottie&. Sigh&. Oh, Lottie&.

　　***

　　I don`t know how long I`ve been sitting here, but I know I haven`t moved since my friends in blue left. There is a knock at the door, and I decide that it might be time to get up. Seeing who it is serves as a weak catalyst to pry my corpse from the seat.

　　"Good evening, Mrs. Evered!"

　　"Mrs. Larson. This is unexpected."

　　"I`m sorry to pop in on you like this. You weren`t answering your phone, but I found the mirrors!"

　　"The mirrors?"

　　"For all the bathrooms! I just couldn`t wait. They are so perfect. Jay chose to wait by the cars while I saw if you were home before he brought them in. May I send for him?"

　　"That`s fine."

　　"Fantastic! Oh, I can`t wait to show you!" Mrs. Larson walks the length of the porch waving down to Jay still in the driveway and then returning to the door. She continues to chatter. I don`t really listen. Soon enough I`m being led through the house to the various bathrooms so Mrs. Larson can show me the final features completing each space. Gaudy and ornate, the mirrors certainly seem at home. "I found each of them at a different flea market. I think all but one of them is authentic? But anyone but maybe myself or an antiques dealer wouldn`t be able to tell the difference. Oh, they are gorgeous! What do you think, Mrs. Evered?"

　　"You did a very nice job," I grant her the validation she is seeking, and she grins happily.

　　"Well, I don`t think either of us want to monopolize your evening. I just wanted to get those last touches in place, and I`d like to get home before it starts to rain."

　　"Yes. Thank you. They look very nice."

　　While Mrs. Larson leaves, Jay lingers to part with an "it`s nice to see you, Lottie."

　　"Always good to see you too. Goodbye, Jay."

　　They leave. All is eerily quiet.

　　Squeak&.

　　"Who`s there?!"

　　Nothing. Not even a sigh greets me.

　　I shudder, and begin to wander through the house again- this time to turn off the lights rather than to appreciate the details of the house. A gust of wind challenges the new windows and makes the frame of the house groan. Ah, yes. Mrs. Larson did say something about a rain storm blowing in. Soon the splattering of rain pummeling the siding echoes through the vastness of the old, great house, blocking out the setting sun and leaving the evening artificially dark.

　　And I`m tired. More dazed, really. It has been a strange- a very strange- day. I could go to bed right now. Soon I`ve slipped into a cotton night dress, continuing my bedtime routine.

　　The main floor powder room: it is the only place in the house that still has bare walls. The backorder wallpaper still hasn`t come in. I go to the sink and brush my teeth, wash my face, and then find a hairbrush with which to futilely attempt to tame the wiry gray strands of old lady hair sticking out of my scalp.

　　And then I look up.

　　And I see my image for the first time in a year.

　　And I don`t recognize the woman looking back at me through the glass.

　　She is old, skinny, unkempt. She is& a shell. Dead eyes. Gaunt face. Bony fingers. Drained. Failing. Fading. If this was a face I associated with myself, I would think I was dying. And it`s true. As the house gained new life, it sucked mine dry.

　　The lights flicker- the new lights installed just a few months ago.

　　Thunder claps a moment later, and she shakes. Trembling. Furious or frightened. And my eyes catch a shadow of movement in the mirror.

　　"Who`s there?!" I spin around, my heart in my throat, to find nothing.

　　And she withholds her acknowledgement.

　　And I am angry with her.

　　And it`s funny how something as simple as a fleeting shadow can make you feel cursed.

　　I turn around in time to watch the reflection of a flash of lightning cast shadows on the walls- highlighting the tortured faces hiding there. And my own face joins them.

　　So that`s what it looks like to fade into nothingness.

　　Crash!