Little Psychic

by V. C. Andrews

  “I can’t tell you which you’ll be tomorrow when you think about it,” I said, and he laughed.

  He put his arm around me and we walked on.

  When we returned to the house, I went upstairs to my room and gazed at myself in the mirror.

  My eyes were still big, but not as big as they used to be.

  The picture of me outside in the hallway was almost the picture of a little girl I had once known and with whom I had lost all contact.

  I didn’t know if she would come back or not. I only knew she was out there somewhere, waiting, waiting.

  Waiting for me or waiting for another place to dwell, a place where the whispering voices would be comfortable for a while.

  And then would move on like birds migrating, moving from one nest of happiness to another, nudged by the wind, the sun and the moon, and the mystery of life itself.