The rain fell like blades on the cold marble of the cemetery when Thomas Whitmore saw the two girls. They were kneeling in front of Helena’s grave, his wife who had passed away two years ago, with their hands clasped in silent prayer. Their soaked clothes clung to their thin bodies, and their dark hair stuck to their pale faces.
Thomas felt his heart tighten. No one visited that grave besides him. No one should have been there that Sunday morning.
He approached slowly, trying not to scare them. When he was a few meters away, one of them lifted her eyes. They were identical.
Twins. They couldn’t have been more than seven years old. Their brown eyes shone with tears mixed with rain, and there was something in that gaze that made him stop in his tracks.
It wasn’t fear. It was hope. The girl staring at him wiped her face with the back of her hand.
Are you her husband? she asked in a trembling voice. Thomas nodded slowly, unable to speak. The other girl remained with her head down, her lips moving in whispers he couldn’t hear.
My mom said Mrs. Whitmore was our guardian angel, the first girl continued. She said if anything happened, we had to come here. That she would help us.
Thomas felt the world spin. Helena had never mentioned these children. She had never spoken about being anyone’s guardian angel.
He knew his wife better than anyone, or at least he thought he did. Who is your mother? he asked, his voice hoarse. How do you know my wife? The girl swallowed hard.
My mom’s name is Laura Davies. She’s in the hospital now. Very sick.
She asked us to come here because she said she wouldn’t be able to stay with us much longer. The words tumbled out, hurried and desperate. Please sir.
We don’t have anyone else. My mom said Mrs. Whitmore promised to take care of us if she couldn’t anymore. The name meant nothing to Thomas.
Laura Davies. He racked his memory, trying to find some connection, some moment when Helena might have mentioned this woman. Nothing.
Only the emptiness of ignorance. How could his wife have made such a promise without him knowing? How had these children entered her life without leaving a trace? What hospital? Thomas heard his own voice ask before he even processed what he was doing. The quieter girl finally lifted her face, and Thomas saw that she was crying silently.
Central Hospital. Room 312. Her voice was even more fragile than her sister’s.
Thomas looked at Helena’s grave. The inscription shone under the rain. Helena Whitmore.
Beloved wife. May your love continue to illuminate the world. He had always thought those words were beautiful, but empty…
