When Melanie finally arrived at the cabin, she found Albert in the kitchen, scuttling back and forth on excited feet. The counters were covered in dishes and boxes of flour, with random pieces of silverware scattered about. Bits of egg dripped onto the floor, and the cabinets were dotted with dozens of white fingerprints.
"This place is a nightmare," Melanie muttered, staring around incredulously. "It's not usually like this, is it? What are you doing?"
"It's going to be Brooklyn's birthday in a few days," Albert replied, sliding a baking sheet into the oven. "She's turning twelve! Can you believe it? She's getting so big!"
Melanie pursed her lips, brow furrowing in concern. "Al...you don't really believe that she's back, do you? I mean, it's impossible."
"See for yourself," he stepped over to the table, plucking a small object from its surface. As he came closer, she could see what it was--a tiny wooden turtle.
"W-what is this?" she breathed. Albert placed the turtle gently in the palm of her outstretched hand. Melanie tilted her head forward, examining it with wide eyes. The turtle stared back, cartoonishly carved eyes mirroring her expression. "It can't be..."
She wrapped her hand around the tiny wooden creature and squeezed it--the rough pine did not yield. It just sat there, solid and real. Melanie shook her head.
"There's no way she made this, Al," she said, looking into her ex-husband's hopeful face. "Someone else must have. Or you were drunk last night and just don't remember."
"I haven't drunk anything in over a month," Albert replied, snatching the turtle back. "And nobody's been in this house except for you and me. It must've been her--it's the only logical explanation."
"Logical explanation?!" Melanie cried. "You call this a logical explanation? Albert, you're saying our daughter came back from the dead! What part of that sounds logical to you?"
"Well, what do you think it was, then? A cockroach?"
"I think you've driven yourself mad! You've been living alone in this godforsaken forest for over a year now, with only your thoughts and your daughter's memory to keep you company. I think you need to get professional help. Here--I can sign you up for an appointment at the local clinic right now."
Melanie pulled her phone from her handbag.
"No! I don't need therapy! She's here! She--" as the words fell from Albert's mouth, he finally began to realize just how crazy he sounded. He sank back into a chair, pressing a hand to his face. "...she has to be. Melanie...you have to believe me. I don't know how that turtle got here and I swear I haven't taken anything. What else could it be?"
Melanie just looked at him, concern etched into her face. She turned back to her phone, thumbs tapping rapidly on the small screen.
"Here. I've signed you up for an appointment with Dr. Mills at 2:30 on Monday. Does that work for you?"
Albert sighed.
"I'm gonna take that as a yes," Melanie locked her phone, sliding it back into her handbag. "Oh, and I texted your brother. He'll be coming to see you Wednesday."
"Wha--Melanie! You can't be serious...what did you tell him?"
"Just that you need his help. He'll be staying for a week or two to make sure you're okay."
"Ugh...the last thing I need is that son of a--" Melanie gave him a very sharp look. "...gun lurking around my house! Not after what he did."
"Don't talk about your brother like that! He cares about you! And he's coming whether you like it or not, so pull up your big boy pants and clean up this kitchen! It's an absolute nightmare."
Points: 369
Reviews: 15
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