AUTHOR'S CORNER:

Hola~! How are you guys been doing? As you know; new week means new chapters! YEEEHAAAAA~! (^—^)

I'm sure you have more questions than answer from the previous chapters, so BUCKLE UP! Today is the day... where our dear Tansy finally meets Henry (or should I say his ghost? Idk),!

Are you guys ready?

...and BRACE YOURSELVES because this would be one heck of a ride! —a pretty looooooong chapter perhaps. But I promise you guys, things would get more exciting...

(~ , *)

Lunch period at school...

Leaves are falling, someone's calling someone's name: could it be mine?

Lunch at school with Bethyl Ann— isn't exactly what I need. But it'll be worth it if I find out more about Henry. And maybe something about Papa Dan's past, too.

"Is it spooky living in the Peterson house?" Bethyl Ann asks.

"Sometimes. In a way I like it, though."

She leans closer, a secretive smile on her face. "I went there a few times," she says quietly. "Mrs. Quattlebaum had gallbladder surgery a few weeks before you moved here. Mom and I would take casseroles to her and Mr. Quattlebaum, and while they visited, I walked over to your house. It was empty then."

"You went inside?"

Her smile falls and she shakes her head quickly, like she's afraid I'll get her into trouble. "No, just outside, but that was enough." She folds the paper sack into a square, avoiding my gaze. "No wonder everyone says it's haunted."

"Why do you say that?" I ask too quickly, leaning toward Bethyl Ann. "Did you see or hear something?" Henry's rosewood box comes to mind, and before she can answer me, I ask, "Did you find something?"

Eyeing me suspiciously, she asks, "Did you? Is that why you're so overwrought?"

I lean back, embarrassed. "I'm not overwrought. And that sounds like a word my mother would use."

She lifts her chin. "You didn't answer my question."

I shrug. "I've heard a few strange noises at night. It's an old creaky house, and the wind blows constantly."

Bethyl Ann keeps staring at me with that skeptical look on her face. I can't tell if she knows I'm keeping something from her, or if she's the one who's keeping something from me. She never answered my question, either.

She sits back and flattens the paper sack between her knees. "I wish I'd been around when Henry Peterson was alive," she says. "He's probably the most intriguing person who ever lived in this two-horse town."

"Intriguing?" I squint at her. "How?"

"Sometimes he hurt himself on purpose."

"What do you mean?"

She lifts a shoulder. "People say he'd get mad at his parents or somebody else and hurt himself out of spite. I've read articles about him in the library archives."

Disturbed by the rumor, I ask, "Will you show the articles to me?"

"Sure. We could walk to the library after school. I usually go see Mama, anyway." When I cast her an inquisitive look, she adds "My mom's the local Librarian, and I archive the town newspaper for her." She mimed a key which suggests she has an Official access to the town's file records.

I kindly request her... "Can we go and check it then?"

At the Library...

I have the weirdest sense that a puzzle piece is about to unfold. Pieces, actually, not just one. The bird. The man and dog I've seen at the Quattlebaums' farm. The scene I stepped into last night. The artifacts from the cellar. The lost watch and how it's always set to 12:22. Henry's resemblance to Tate. All clues…but to what?

And the scene. My Gosh, how can I forget about that scene? The one I took from the Mulberry Tree. The one that my viewfinder almost capture. Where I saw the image of my grandfather, perfectly frozen in time as a blossoming teenage boy and another one — my age— although his image a bit fuzzy, I have a distinct feeling that he's staring at me.

In books about photography, I've read the term parallax, but I didn't understand the meaning until now. Parallax refers to a difference in what the photographer sees through the viewfinder and what shows up on the film once the picture is shot. I capture the scene in front of me, yet part of me was certain that nothing will appear in the actual picture. And when the negatives developed, I therefore conclude.

"Ohmygosh! Listen to this!" Bethyl Ann touches the microfiche screen.

Expecting her to recount the boring details of yet another of Mr. and Mrs. Peterson's trips "abroad," I continue looking through a book about birds I found on the library's nonfiction aisle. I scan the pages for a picture of the bird I saw in the hedge. My two hours with Bethyl Ann at the tiny old house that serves as Cedar Canyon's library have been a total waste. I can't help wondering if her claims of finding articles about Henry were a scheme to get me to hang out with her. We haven't run across a single one.

Maybe we should go to the newspaper office," I say absently, flipping through the pages of colorful bird photos. "I bet they have archives of old papers, too."

"Look." Beth nudges me with an elbow.

"Just tell me what it says."

"It's about a Christmas party at the Peterson place. I didn't find this one before."

I turn another page in the bird book, pause, and announce, "This is it!" Smiling, I press my finger against a photo of a small bird with pale brown wings and a brownish red tail. "My insomniac bird is a nightingale." I clear my throat and read, "The sun-shy nightingale is one of only a few bird species that sing primarily at night. Known for its melancholy serenades sung in low, haunting whistles and refrains, the nightingale has been a frequent subject of mythologists, poets, and songwriters throughout time."

"Oh~ sorry, Charlie. I hate to break this to you, but..." Bethyl Ann gives the page a dismissive glance. "Nightingales don't exist in North America, only England. Unless your bird swam the Atlantic, it's could've be something else!" she gives me an accusing look.

I read further into the text and sigh. "You're right. But I swear this is the bird I saw!" Or did I? Maybe that was a figment of my imagination, too.

Bethyl Ann blinks at me and sniffs. "As I was saying…" She returns her attention to the microfiche. "The Petersons were having a Christmas party and the ten-foot blue spruce tree in their parlor went up in flames."

"When?" I close the book and lay it in my lap.

"Henry was seventeen. A reporter interviewed one of the guests, and he said everyone was in the parlor for the tree lighting while Henry played his violin for them." Squinting at the screen, she twirls a strand of hair around her index finger and continues, "When Mr. Peterson plugged the tree in, it exploded. Everyone except Henry screamed and got the hell out of Dodge. He kept playing 'Silent Night' as if nothing had happened."

I laugh. "The paper says they got the hell out of Dodge?"

"No, I said that, smarty-pants. The paper said they ran." She smirks at me. "Henry did it, of course."

"Did what? Blew up the tree?"

"U-HUH?!"

"But why would Henry blow up his parents' tree?"

"Sheer madness? or..." Bethyl Ann shrugs. "Maybe he wanted to get their attention. Maybe he despises them and their Old Money antics? Who knows?"

"As if he was a spoiled rich kid. Who could do anything he wants without merit?"

"Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind," she says.

I decide it's a waste of time to try to silence her Shakespearean tongue. The quotes are so part of Bethyl Ann's persona, I doubt she could ever speak without them.

"Here's another one." She leans closer to the screen and reads, "William and Leonore Peterson were summoned home and had to cut their business trip shortly to Chicago when Henry involved in a gunshot incident which he acquired in foot while cleaning a hunting rifle in the turret of their mansion east of town. Though recorded as an accident, Miss Adeline Ivy, the Petersons' housekeeper, suggested the wound was self-inflicted. Miss Ivy resigned from her job and left Cedar Canyon a few months after the interview." Bethyl Ann lifts her wide-eyed gaze to mine. "WHOA! See? I told you he hurt himself on purpose."

I bit my lower lip. Uneasiness took over me and grips on my chest. If the rumors were true, why was Henry so disturbed? I get pretty unhappy sometimes. Depressed, maybe. But I can't imagine shooting myself in the foot or anywhere else.

I recall the pale face of the guy in the tree, his black marble gaze staring down at me. He's Henry. I don't know why I'm so sure of it, but I am. I wish I was as certain of everything else—that I had answers to all the questions crowding my mind. Does he want something from me? Why is he upsetting Papa Dan? And what's up with his resemblance to Tate? Does Tate have something to do with all of this?

Speaking about Tate — I've been thinking about him nonstop, watching for him at school, wondering why he hated my guts and what could possibly be the reason behind, aside from being broflake. Every time our eyes meet, he looks away. Or his face flushes bright red, like he's angry with me or something! BUT WHAT FOR?

In the hallways, I've seen him halfway backswing to avoid passing me. Just yesterday, he turned midway to the opposite hall, as if I am infected by a stupid plague that might stain him and his crazy sexy abs!

I conjured him into that photograph, superimposed his likeness over that of the tree. I turned Tate into our resident ghost. A hot, brooding monochrome figment of my strong imagination.

I take off my cap and fan my face with it, assuring myself the reason I'm so feeling warm has nothing to do with Tate Hudson at all. The library doesn't even have central air! What is this a purgatory or something?!

I watch Bethyl Ann study the screen, the corners of her mouth curled up in that sly Mona Lisa smile of hers. For a second, I wonder if she's hiding something from me, if she knows more than she's willing to tell. Sighing, I sit back. That's silly; what reason would she have to keep information about Henry from me? What I should be wondering is: What's wrong with me? How can I even consider that any of this might be real? The guy in the tree—the entire episode, in fact—was nothing more than a daydream or an illusion, a latent image created by exposure to a bright reflection. A distorted photograph.

Oh, geez…are you okay?" Bethyl Ann presses her palm to my forehead just as her mother appears at our table. "You're burning up. Isn't she red as a beet, Mama?"

If I didn't know better, I would think Mrs. Pugh is Bethyl Ann's grandmother instead of her mom. She wears her gray hair pulled into a ponytail, and her face is a roadmap of wrinkles. "You do look a bit flushed, Tansy," she says. "Are you feverish?"

"No, but I'm a little dizzy."

"Looking at microfiche makes some folks a bit seasick, believe it or not." Mrs. Pugh blinks rapidly, her eyes concerned behind her giant wire-framed glasses.

"It might just be because I didn't eat breakfast," I say. Or sleep last night.

"We have leftovers at home, Bethyl Ann," she says. "Cold meat loaf and pasta salad with extra mayo, just like you like it. Why don't you girls go make yourself a plate?"

I wanna say that I don't eat anything that once had eyes, a nose, and a mouth, but her hopeful expression stops me, and I feel a pinch of guilt for ever thinking that someone as young and innocent as Bethyl Ann might be scheming me. "Okay. We'll go to your house." Lifting the bird book from my lap, I add, "I want to check this out first, okay?"

"Of course." Mrs. Pugh takes the book from me. "I'll make you a library card."

Bethyl Ann and I follow her mother to a desk up front. The truth is, I'm really not all that hungry, and even if I was, I would never eat meat loaf. The thought of mayonnaise-covered pasta makes me nauseous, too. But I'll force down the noodles. Bethyl Ann has been helpful, and I should be nice to her. She's the most normal thing in my life right now.

She yawns noisily, then yawns again —quieter this time— then leans close to me and whispers, "Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale. Shakespeare, in case you're wondering. King John. Act three, scene four."

I bite the inside of my cheek. Bethyl Ann, normal? If I'm starting to believe that, I really do need an appointment to have my head examined.

It was passed 3'oclock in the afternoon. I decided to go see the bridge myself to pass time, and to take a breather after all I've learned about Henry so far. We now have an internet service, but not as strong as it were back in San Francisco. Besides, am taking a time off the Social Media. Like, I'm doing this Social Media Detox practice, if you ever heard such thing. Because I am obviously avoiding fake-people who fills up my friend's list and that...includes...HAILEEEYYYY FREMONT!

Anyways, imma trying to have a good mood here so... let's just skipped them once and for all.

I strike out toward the part of the canyon that borders our property. I'm not sure why I've waited so long to go to the bridge. Maybe because I have mixed feelings about seeing the place where Henry died. A part of me is curious, but another part doesn't want to imagine him taking the plunge, and I'm pretty sure I won't be able to wipe that image from my mind once I've been there.

I snap shots while I walk. A twisted mesquite tree. A jutting rock formation. A trio of tumbleweeds scampering across the field. After a few minutes, I rest beneath a small grove of cottonwood trees beside a boulder that's shaped like a bench. The rock formation is so unusual that I squat to get a shot of it, positioning the camera in front of my face.

Panic slams into me. I freeze.

Tate's look-alike lies stretched out along the smooth rock, a faded gray guy in a colorless world. His hands are laced behind his head, his booted feet crossed at the ankles. A violin lies across his lap. He stares beyond me with narrowed eyes, his face molded into a crooked half smile.

My pulse thunders in my ears as I stumble backward and land on my butt, my hat flying off my head, the camera strap tugging at the back of my neck as it falls. I pick up the camera, look again, and gasp. "Who are you?"

He stays as still as the rock—as if he's a part of it.

"Are you Henry?" I whisper, but of course he doesn't answer, doesn't blink. His hair remains unruffled by the gusty breeze that tousles mine.

A voice inside my head tells me to run as fast as I can and not look back. But I'm paralyzed by the fear that, if I move, he'll reach out and grab me. I have to force myself to lift my hand to take the picture. Once it's shot, I grab my hat, put it on, and scoot backward, until I'm far enough from the rock that I feel safe to stand again. The camera bangs against my hip as I run, but I don't stop. My lungs feel like they're about to pop as I sprint across the field.

I hit a trail that weaves through another sparse grove of trees. The trail turns sharply at the far side of the grove, and ahead steel girders curve up into the sky like the arched skeletal spine of a giant centipede. The sight stops me short. Panting, I glance back, afraid I'll see the guy from the bench rock coming after me, relieved when I find that I've outrun my delusion, at least for the moment.

I turn around, lean forward at the waist, plant my hands on my thighs, and try to calm down. The bridge looms ahead of me. It's a spectacular sight. Larger than I ever imagined, tarnished and daunting and eerie…like Henry. Maybe the bridge absorbed Henry's essence when he fell from its side. I can't wait to capture the image on film, but when I look through the camera lens, my breath catches in my throat. He's there—the guy from the bench rock. Henry. Standing at the far end of the structure, bent over the railing, staring down into the craggy canyon below. My stomach folds in on itself when he steps up onto the railing's lowest rung.

No! Don't jump!

I grip the camera so tightly my knuckles ache. But as fast as the thought flashes through my mind, another one follows. He moved. I zoom in, and just as I realize the guy on the bridge isn't Henry but Tate, — he steps down and starts walking across the bridge toward the trail, looking down at his feet. I lower the camera and turn to go, anxious to escape before he sees me.

But before I could take few more steps down the trail, I stop. Whatever Tate's been up against me, am SICK of it! Whatever it is. I turn around, ready to face him —once and for all—to come right out, confront and ask what I did to tick the heck out of him off!

When he sees me walking toward him, he pauses a few seconds before he continues my way. Coward, I think, then wait until he's only a few steps away before calling, "Is there something you want?"

"No, why?" He pauses. "I was just heading home."

I shrug. "Then, why are you acting like an A**-hole?!"

He flinched then say, "Nope. I'm good." and walks past me.

I sigh loudly, then murmur, "JERK!"

Tate stops walking, turns, and narrows his gaze on me. "I'm sorry, do you call me a jerk?"

No, no way I'll call a hot-dude a jerk. No. No, no, no NO HECK NOOOO! WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME? WHY DID I SAY THAT? (O_O ")

Heat fills my throat. I didn't mean for him to hear me, and at first my polite instincts insist that I apologize then slink away. But then my pride kicks in. Yeah~ Like a Bruce Lee kick! Why should I apologize? He has been acting like a jerk. So I clenched my fist and say out loud...

"No, you're an IDIOT!" I shout. "A SORE LOSER! And I guess you couldn't care less, right?"

"What people think of me is none of my business."

"Wow. You're a tough guy, too."

"Maybe I am. So what?"

"Well, I'm not impressed." I turn my back on him and stomp off down the trail toward the bridge. Then RUN, as fast as I could!

Less than a minute goes by. And here I found myself to the other side of the bridge. I dock myself from behind a tree, hoping when Tate catches up he won't see me. But a few seconds had passed, no Tate shows up, so I thought I lost him.

The sun shines brightly before its impending set. It's 4:04 in my digital wrist watch. It just occurred to me that I've missed the afternoon class by going to the Library with Bethyl Ann and by heading straight to the canyon.

OH SHOCKS! I'm DEAD AF! (O,O )! I am a roast chicken should Mom find out that I skipped class! Oh no, Mrs. Tilby would probably place me in detention after school tomorrow! Que Horror! —an old Spanish word for Scary. My great-grandmother, Papa Dan's mom to be precise, is Half-French-Half-Spanish. That's why we both have her Hazel green eyes. But anyway — it doesn't matter. Too many segues...

I look across the mountain top and see how beautiful and golden the sun is. As if the two mountain is it's throne and she is the Queen. I step a little closer to the cliff protruding on the side of the bridge, parallel to the tree I went for hiding.

I see it wasn't as deep compare to the other side, where Henry allegedly fell. But still as quite dangerous should you miss a step. So I quickly move my feet away from the edge and wend backwards. When I am on a safe distance, I began dancing Odette — the White Swan— variation. First I began with Attitude Derrière —a position on one leg with the other lifted in back. Then a quick single Arabesque — a position of the body, in profile, supporting on one leg. Then the rest of the variations.

I never felt free as I were when dancing. That's why I love it. I missed it. I always have this passion for ballet since I was 4year old. Such a tender age, if you may ask. But that's when the bones are forming, beginning to take mold. Which is why it is so important to attend Ballet classes at such a young age. And develop a flexible movement early on.

I used to dance Swan Lake as part of our repertoire in Ballet Academy when we're still living in LA. I was 7 at that time. From then on, I fell in love with the White Swan character. So graceful yet cheerful. So young, fresh and pure. Everyone loves my performance. And that led me to many opportunities in Ballet.

I remember the musical score. Can still feel the wooden plank floor bracing my feet as I grace back and forth the stage with each pointe steps I make. The howling sound of applaud whenever I did a Jeté and a flawless twirl in pax de deux.

I missed it all. Gosh, I MISS IT!

I wanna go back, to that glorious moment where I can go about and dance!

Before I knew it, my left toe hit something hard on the ground which triggers my long-healed injury. And I suddenly went off balance... I almost stumble on the bed rock, when someone catches me preventing me from falling...

It was Tate.

I can't believe my eyes. I fall from Tate Hudson. LITERALLY!

I fall on top of him. I LANDED ON HIM!

And I was like (O/-/o) flushing all over the face!

We locked our eyes on each other for a loooooooong seconds, until he asks "Are you okay?"

"No." I flustered. "I mean. N-no okay... I mean yeah. Yyy-yes. I-I-I'm fine. I-I-I-I'm good."

"Uhm..."

"Uhm..." I hummed back.

"Uhm. Can you get off me?"

"Oh! OH!" SHOCKS! I forgot I was pinning him down. OH MY! I swear its all unintentional! (~_^)

"I-I'm SO SORRY!" I quickly get up. "Are you ok—"

Before I could finish my sentence, my left foot ache AF which causes me get off-balance but Tate hurries up and catches me with open arms.

OMG! I can't help falling on Tate... so to speak.

I jerk my head up and see Tate's smile broadly. As if he's watching a funny skit from Saturday Night Live "Why d'you keep on falling? Is there anything wrong with your feet?" He tries to suppress his chuckle.

"My left toe, actually." I clarify him. "I... I sustained an injury two years ago from a car accident. So..."

"Oh." He said looking bummed. "I-I'm sorry. Does it hurt now?" "Can you stand?"

"Yes. I'm fine. I can stand on my own." I don't know why I feel shy with him looking concerned all of a sudden.

"Are you sure?" He let go of my shoulders which he cupped around with his hands to keep me from falling flat.

*****A LOUD SILENCE*****

After a long awkward moment that feels like ten, we both stare down at our shoes, silent. Then Tate clears his throat, breaking the ice and says, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be mean to you, its just that..." he jams his hands into his pockets, a sheepish look on his face. "I'm in a bad mood sometimes."

"Yeah I notice that." I said sarcastically. He smiles, then asks succinctly "Is this your first time here?"

"U-huh." I glance toward the canyon then, tilt my head down. Trying to avoid his eyes. His enigmatic blue eyes.

"Can we start over?"

My eyes lift to his the moment he said this.

He gestures toward the bridge over the canyon. "So, what do you think? Pretty cool, huh?"

"It's amazing. I didn't expect it to be so—" I can't find the right word to describe the awesome sight of the towering structure.

"I know," he says. "I've tried a million times to write about it—you know, do it justice, but I can never explain how incredible it is."

My indignation begins to melt like butter in a microwave. How can someone who's so frustrating and rude most of the time also be so tuned in to what I'm thinking? I doubt many guys would see the beauty in a bridge, much less feel it deserved to be portrayed in a flattering way. Still, I'm not going to let down my guard. I don't completely trust this warmer side of Tate. I've experienced it once before and learned the hard way how swiftly he switch on from hot to cold.

"Why don't you try hard until you get what you wanted?" I say. "Believe me, I know as well as anyone how insecure writers can be. When my mom's in the middle of whatever book she's working on, she's always convinced it's total crap and her career is ruined. Then she turns it in and her editor loves it or she gets a good review or a ton of fan letters and she struts around like she's the most talented writer on the planet. That lasts until she starts the next book, and then it's the same routine all over again." I roll my eyes. "She can be a real drama queen." Embarrassed by my nervous speech, I look down at my shoes again.

Tate laughs. "In my case, though, what I'm working on is crap."

I glance up and make a face. "See? You're no more secure than my mother."

Tate falls silent. He pulls his hands from his pockets and taps his fingers against his thighs. "You were right, by the way. I HAVE been a jerk."

Confused by his sudden admission, I clarify "No. You're an a**hole" "...and am not kidding."

"I know." He says, after a wry smile skipped his lips. "I don't know what's wrong with me sometimes. What happened a second ago—I was just in a bad mood. It wasn't anything you did."

"That doesn't explain the way you've acted toward me every other day since I started school here." then I stated, "...thought you're being a jackass."

He look abashed, then bow his head down a bit and say, "I guess I haven't made things any easier on you—being in a new place, I mean. Moving so much must suck."

"Yeah. well, I can tell you tend to be obnoxious sometimes. No problem. I can manage."

"Really?"

"No." We both cracked up.

Another stretch of awkward silence gaffles between us. And Tate clears his throat again...

"So.Why did you move here in the first place?"

For some reason, anger jabs at me again. "Excuse me for upsetting you by being here."

"Is that what you think?" He gaffed. "No, I just want to know. Please don't get me wrong."

"Well, you've acted like you despise me ever since you found out I wasn't just some girl passing through town. Someone you can flirt with at your uncle's café then forget about right after,"

He lowers his head, then looks up at me slowly, moving only his eyes. "I don't despise you, technically speaking. It's just that… some stuff happened, and I guess I... I sort of took it out on you,"

"Oh fair point. Like that makes sense. What stuff? What did I have to do with it?" I cross my arms, casting him a critical look.

"Nothing. It's my dad, mostly. He's been on my case about a lot of things."

"Football, you mean."

"How did you know that?"

"I heard you two arguing behind the press box the night of the Watermelon Run."

Before he almost scowl, I add succinctly, "Look, ah... I-I was at the top of the bleachers taking pictures and then you were just there. I couldn't help overhearing!" I justified nervously.

He gave me a dismissive stare, "It doesn't matter. Dad is super imposing when it comes to me-playing-football." "I don't know. His fervid fascination over this subject coaxes me to sign for a College Football Scholarship."

"Well, if you'd ask me, that sounds cool. Why, you don't want to?"

"I don't care about football. I never have to begin with."

"Then why do you play anyway?"

"It's pretty much of a big deal to him."

If dad was still here, would pleasing him be so important to me that I would do something I hated just to make him happy?

Now I know the reason behind his erratic behavior. This whole crazy football stuff + his own family dilemma gets into his head so much so that it greatly affect his rational thinking and caused him mood-swings. Pity gushes through me, as I think of Mary Jane and J.B blabbing the topic of Tate's mom leaving earlier at the City Drug, so I decide not to bring up the subject. "I've read an article about how you won the game single-handedly on the Melon Run last time on the town's editorial..."

"It's Watermelon." He snorted. then said sharply "I don't want to talk about football," "I just wanted to apologize and say that I hope we can be. You know…maybe we can be friends?"

I hope he can't tell how ecstatic I am when he asked me that. But since he deserves to sweat a little, I make him wait for my answer. I suppose I'm feeling cantankerous, as Papa Dan used to say.

"Well?" he asks. "Any chance of that?" Tate's lighthearted tone of voice and the teasing glint in his eyes don't hide his discomfort. Which only proves he's not used to apologizing for anything.

"Uhm... Well, that depends," I finally tell him. "Will you let me read something you wrote?"

"I don't know…" Tate's brows tug together. "I'll think about it."

"Then forget the whole thing— we be friends or what?" I also shoot him a glint of a teasing look.

"It's embarrassing." He kicks a rock and it skips across the trail. Slanting me a look, he says, "I might, if you'll let me see some of your photos."

"We'll see that." A smile twitches my lips. "...only if you'd behave yourself and act nice for a change, maybe?"

"I'll try. It'll be hard, though."

"I can tell it's not in your nature."

We grin at each other, then he offers me his hand. "Truce?"

"Truce," I say, and we shake.

And we walk along the trail side by side as he invite me for a brief tour around the Great Canyon, and I can hardly believe how our relationship has gone from agonizing to awesome in less than an hour. If only the same thing could happen with everything else in my life.

After dinner...

I didn't tell Mom that I forgot about school and spent most of my time at the Library and nature observing with Tate, the whole afternoon. She will be F.U.R.I.O.U.S!

So I head straight to the turret —where my darkroom is— and take a look at the photos I developed earlier, now hanging on the drying rack.

My nerves stretch tight as I sit in the velvet chair by the window. I study the items on the round table: the envelope of photos from City Drug, the teardrop crystal, Henry's journal. Beneath my palm the leather is smooth in places, bumpy in others.

A poet is a nightingale…

I remember reading that snippet from a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley. But what does my nightingale poet want to say to me tonight? I'm not sure I want to know. The moment I found the journal, I felt my sanity slipping away like sand through my fingers. Maybe I shouldn't read Henry's poems anymore.

I slide the top photograph from the envelope, the one of Papa Dan squinting up into the mulberry tree. Henry's pocket watch still lies on the ground at his feet. Is that what my grandfather searched for all morning? Mom told me after I got home that Papa Dan spent most of the day outside, lurking at the Mulberry Tree as if he's finding something.

The nightingale's song plays through my mind, so pretty it brings fresh tears to my eyes and a longing for something that I can't name.

…his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and softened…

The crystal captures the lamp's glow and winks at me. I want my grandfather back. Maybe that possibility exists, maybe not. But I'll never know unless I take the chance.

Aiming the teardrop at the picture, I turn it slightly until a prism of light stretches between the two items. The prism shimmers and surrounds me. The image in the photograph widens. And there again...

I slip through.

"Henry! I've found your watch! I've found it here!" a young man whom I easily identified as my grandfather stood waiting for someone to go down from a tree branch. "I hope it didn't break."

"Who cares?" said Henry. The boy from the Mulberry tree. He sits there staring at a long distance. Whatever it is, nobody knows. He glance back to the boy in the ground — my grandfather, Daniel. His bestfriend— "Keep it!" he urged, almost like a command.

I can see his face clearly. And for instance, it gives me a full —High Definition— glimpse, of Tate Hudson's visual. Its as if they were born as identical twins! Only 7 long generations apart. If am doing math right.

"I can't take your watch."

"You're not taking it. It's my gift. That watch might be worth a lot of money someday. If you don't want to carry it, store it in one of those fancy little boxes you make." Henry always has this commanding tone on him. Perhaps because of his Rick Kid upbringing. But the way he speak to young Daniel, has a tone of deep sarcasm.

"I never keep them," Daniel says. "I give them away."

"You really should make one for yourself," I said. Yet the words I had spoken isn't exactly coming from me. But to someone else...

Its as if I am inhabiting another person's body. Much like Stephanie Meyer's novel — The Host.

But I kind of pre-sensed or pre-determined the words she is about to spoke or the gestures and nuisances she's about to take. As if I already have it predicted, or anticipated.

Like I am a part of her, and she is to me. I know everything she knows, though she hardly known mine; and feel her emotions; and read her thoughts as if it was my own.

We're two souls combine, inside one body,—Isabel and I. But she's the one in control; I can only follow along, listening and watching as if I'm a passenger.

Her name is Isabelle. I knew it right before her friends call out for her. And she is bestfriends with both my future grandfather and Henry.

The of the phantom I first saw through the viewfinder along with the boy beneath it have come alive. They move and talk like actors in a black-and-white movie. And it seems right, the most natural thing in the world!

Daniel grins at me/her. Then he holds out the glossy-gold timepiece toward Henry who is now scooting down the tree branch.

"Your folks gave it to you for your birthday," he objected. "It must've cost 'em a pretty penny."

"They have plenty more money than anyone from this god-forsaken town, Daniel," Henry scoffs. "I don't want anything from them. So keep it, or throw it away." Again his usual snappish tone.

Isabel's heart aches for him. She wonders how his parents can be so cruel. They leave him alone too much. Mrs. Peterson always accompanies Mr. Peterson on his business trips, and they take more vacations than anyone she knows, even during the months when Henry is in school and can't join them. Isabel's folks never leave her alone.

"I'm sure they love you," she says to him, pulling her coat more snugly around her. Her fingers are numb inside her mittens as she shades her eyes against the sun's white glare and gazes into the tree branches at Henry. "You must miss them. It has to be just awful staying out here with that moody Miss Ivy all the time. I thought she resigned?"

"After I fired bullet on my foot, you mean?" He guffaws. "Whatever Father wants, He will get. And in just a snap of his opulent finger, he bribed the old hag back."

Daniel looks at Henry suspiciously. "You didn't really shoot yourself on purpose like everyone says."

"Didn't I?" Henry cocks a brow.

Terrified, I —as Isabel— scolds him aloud, "Knock it off, Henry!" "The way you talk, it's no wonder people—" She catches herself.

"Think I'm insane?" Henry says, feigning a wicked laugh. "Don't look so grim, Isabel. I don't mind being the town's Mad Hatter. In fact, I like that!"

A loud tune of a bell diverts Isabel's attention to the farmhouse across the way—the Quattlebaums' farmhouse. No, not yet. Not from this time. The farm belongs to Isabel's family, first and foremost; her father is the farmer I've seen through my camera lens in my own world—somehow I know that.

He's out there now, shoveling snow in the yard. He props the shovel against his body to play fetch with their Labrador retriever, Kip. Isabel giggles as Kip runs toward the barn to retrieve the ball. "I think I better go." She informs the two gentlemen. "It's almost 12noon. Mom and Dad might go looking out for me any time soon."

"Don't be such a kill-joy" Henry protests, "Why don't we play hide-and-seek? Remember when we spent Saturdays playin' in the Canyon? That was fun." then he adds, "we'll change the rules to make it more interesting." He winks at Isabel. "Instead of one person hiding and two seeking, Isabel and I will hide together, and you'll have to look for us, Daniel."

Heat creeps from beneath Isabel's coat collar and climbs up her neck and face to warm her cheekbones. Until recently, Henry treated her and Daniel the same—as slightly amusing, slightly annoying younger siblings. He never winked at her or made flirtatious suggestions. Their shared glances didn't startle her or make her pulse stutter, as they do now. She is confused by his increasing attention, by his dark, unwavering stare and the unfamiliar feelings it stirs inside her.

The bell rings a second time. Isabel feigns annoyance, though she's really relieved. Slipping Henry's watch into her coat pocket to hold for him until he comes down from the tree, she sighs and said "No, I should probably get going..."

"So that's how your mother calls you in now? By ringing the bell?" One corner of Henry's mouth curves up. "I think I'll call you Bell from now on. It fits perfectly on you!"

"You're askin' for it now, Bell!" Daniel yells, reaching for more snow.

Henry jumps from the tree and takes Isabel's arm, casting a dark glance over his shoulder at Daniel, and cuts him immediately. "Bell is my name for her, not yours."

A stunned look of apprehension flashes through Daniel's face, and I feel the pressure of Henry's fingers through Isabel's coat sleeve as her gaze darts between the two of them. "I need to go home," she murmurs, a sudden wariness humming beneath her skin.

Henry draws her a few steps farther away from Daniel and gives her arm an even harder squeeze.