Even as I thought as much, the root holding my weight began to crack. My palms were sweaty as I ran one hand across the stone, desperately seeking some niche that would save me.
“There,” whispered a boyish voice into my ear.
Through a haze of panic, I saw a ghostly vision of a boy’s hand, the knuckles grubby and scratched. Those plump but agile fingers were painfully familiar, and I would have recoiled had the root not cracked more loudly. It began to shift and my weight slipped. I snatched at the grip the ghostly hand indicated, too relieved to be surprised that the rock was warm when I grasped it.
As if another hand had just abandoned it.
I pulled myself up and watched for Michel’s guiding hand. I dared not consider why he haunted me now, why he might choose to save me when I had not
