The halls of the small school were croweded as the bell rang and students flooded into the small space. Emily grabbed her fourth-grade social studies book and made her way through the chaos.

Out on the lawn, a gentle wind blew across the trampled grass as Emily headed toward the orphanage dormatory.

She felt a light tap on her shoulder, hardly discernable from the gusting wind. Without turning around, she said curtly, “I told you not to come here anymore. I told you not to talk to me. The other kids think I’m weird.”

And it was true – Emily always walked alone.

She was addressing a young boy, hardly older than herself, though tall and lanky. His long, dark hair fell messily into his emerald green eyes. Emily knew that he had died on the site of the orphanage and that he like to sit up in the crabapple tree and throw the stonelike fruit at unsuspecting students.

“Emily,” he said. And the conviction in his voice made her stop and turn around. “You have to help me. You’re the only one who can.”