She could not see her house up ahead, but Rachel knew it stood just beyond the top of the rise through the trees, along with three additional buildings that her parents frequently loaned to artists. At first they had made the spaces available to select friends. Then friends of friends. Eventually they had needed to make a reservation list. Painters, writers, sculptors. Occasionally musicians.

Why did the thought of home spark an urgent longing? Rachel wanted to run. Ignoring the silly impulse, she strolled up the hill, basking in the familiar sights and smells. She felt lucky to live in such a beautiful place.

The house had lights on in defiance of the gray day. Was it getting darker? Rain still sprinkled down. Rachel climbed the steps to the wide, rustic deck. She found the rear sliding door locked. She went around to the front door and found it locked as well. Shouldn’t she have a key? She checked her pockets. Nope.

Walking away from the door, Rachel peered through a living room window. There were her parents, comfy in their favorite chairs, each with a book, steaming mugs nearby. The sight of them made her heart swell with relief and joy.

Rachel rapped on the window, but it made hardly any sound. She knocked harder, but it was like banging on a huge slab of stone rather than a fragile windowpane. “Dad!” she shouted. “Mom! I can’t get in!” All they had to do was look up and see her at the window. They didn’t.

Frustrated, Rachel hurried to the front door and knocked heavily. Again there was no sound. She tried the doorbell. Normally, she should have heard it chime even from outside. She heard nothing. What was going on?

She looked down at the fancy welcome mat, a gift from a visiting artist. THE WOODRUFFS, it read in flowery script. Clusters of costume jewels added sparkle in two corners. The artist had insisted that they actually use the mat. Rachel frowned. The mat seemed to taunt her by proclaiming that this was her home. If that was true, why couldn’t she get in?

Rachel circled the house. She slapped random windows after checking to see if they were unlocked. None were. No matter how hard she pummeled the glass, she could produce no noise. She looped back to the window where she could see her parents calmly reading. Dad was sipping from his mug. Mom turned a page.

Rachel pounded the glass with both fists, to no avail. She waved her arms and shouted. She backed up, picked up a stone the size of her fist, and hurled it at the window. The stone bounced off, making no noise until it struck the ground. What had her parents done to the house? Made it soundproof and bulletproof?

Desperate, Rachel picked up another rock.

“Can I help you?” asked a female voice from behind.

Rachel whirled and saw Sharmaine, her favorite artist who had ever resided with them. When had she come back? Sharmaine had short pink hair and dark eyeliner. She wore a denim jacket covered with pins, beads, and ink doodles.

Sharmaine had grown up in Michigan. She painted pieces of wood and then wrote original haikus on them in fancy calligraphy. She had given Rachel a painted wooden segment that read:

When Rachel pole vaults

She soars like a swift pirate

With a huge peg leg

The plank had a doodle of a pirate beside the haiku. It was one of Rachel’s favorite treasures.

“Hi, Sharmaine,” Rachel said. “I was trying to get their attention.”

“Rock through the window would do it,” Sharmaine replied curtly. She wasn’t showing any recognition. If anything, she seemed wary.

Rachel glanced at the rock in her hand. “They couldn’t hear me.”

Sharmaine gave a cautious nod. “Let’s try the front door.”

Rachel almost protested, but decided against it. She followed Sharmaine to the front door. “You remember me, right?” Rachel checked.

“Sure,” Sharmaine said vaguely. She knocked on the door. It made a sound! A normal knocking sound, just how it should.

A moment later her dad answered. “Hi, Sharmaine. Who’s your friend?” He was looking at Rachel with blank courtesy.

She had seen her father show that expression to other people. But never her. He knew her. He loved her.

“It’s me,” Rachel said meekly.

“Have we met?” he asked, still with the neutral politeness appropriate for a new acquaintance.

“I’m your daughter,” Rachel said, insulted that she had to spell it out.

Her dad looked to Sharmaine, who shrugged. “I found her outside your window holding a rock.”

Dad returned his gaze patiently to Rachel. “Our only daughter died years ago,” he explained. “Did you know her?”

Rachel suddenly realized that she had been away in Lyrian for a long time. It all came rushing back. She must look older or different. “It’s me, Dad. I’m just older. I’m back.” Tears welled in her eyes.

Her dad glanced at Sharmaine. The glance communicated that they clearly had a situation on their hands.

“I’m not crazy,” Rachel blurted, wiping at her eyes. “Ask me anything; I can prove it.”

“Where do you live?” he asked gently.

“Here,” Rachel answered in a small voice. “I live here.”

“Why don’t you come inside and sit down?” her dad offered, as he would to a needy stranger.

Rachel turned to Sharmaine. “You remember me, right? You gave me the haiku? About the pole vaulting?”

Sharmaine held out a painted plank. “If you want a haiku, I can spare this one.” Rachel accepted the wooden rectangle. Sharmaine looked at Rachel’s dad. “You okay?”

“I’ve got this,” he replied. “Thanks, Sharmaine.”

Sharmaine turned away, and Rachel followed her dad inside. He escorted Rachel to the living room and offered her a seat on the sofa. Her mom was no longer present.

“Make yourself comfortable,” her dad said. “I’ll be back in a second.”

Rachel took a seat, the painted plank in her hands. Turning it over, she saw little gravestones doodled at either side of a haiku.

Most loving parents

Try to dodge conversations

With their dead children

The words struck Rachel like a physical blow. Fearful chills made her skin prickle. What was going on?

She stood up, surveying the familiar room. The correct pictures hung on the walls. The correct knickknacks rested on the mantel. The scent of herbal tea wafted up from half-empty mugs.

“Rachel?”

Startled, Rachel spun to face her mother, who had just entered the room. “Mom?”

Her mom cocked her head sympathetically. “No, dear, I’m not your mother.”