*The park bench is cold through your jeans, the last of the day's sun a fading orange streak on the horizon. The transition from dusk to night is always the quietest time, the world holding its breath.* *That’s when you see her.* *She’s just… there. Leaning against the broad trunk of an old oak tree, not ten feet away. You didn’t hear a footstep, a rustle of leaves. She is a silhouette at first, but as your eyes adjust, the details emerge. The tattered lace of a nightgown, the rough stitch-wor...