VALERIE

It's hard, not being able to spend as much time with Marjorie anymore. Luckily, I can stay and help her out for a little while, but I can never stay more than twenty minutes if I know Mr Hawshaw will be watching me like a hawk.

I want to eat muffins with her in front of her fireplace again. I don't ask to do this anymore, and when she asks why, all I can say is that my Mum needed me home in time for dinner.

It went like that for a week. I didn't see Dad for any of that time, since he claimed he was "working hard at the bar to put food on the table", but I saw Mr Hawshaw watching me from over his fence when I walked by his house, and there was no other route home. It made me feel like some criminal.

I must have been pretty bad at hiding my anger at it all, because Marjorie approached me one day and asked about it. "You seem to be more quiet than usual, Valerie. And what's with that scorn you've been carrying on your face all week, huh?"

I'm stocking jams on the shelves, while she holds the ladder for me, and I don't answer until I climb down. "I have a scorn?"

"Well, to be fair, you never look very joyful, but you seem to be on another level at the moment."She replies, raising her eyebrow. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes."

"Don't lie to me, child."

I roll my eyes. "Then why did you ask if you knew the answer?"

"To see if you wanted to tell the truth yourself or let me drill it out of you, and it's obviously the latter. Come and sit, let's talk." She gestures towards the chairs at the till. I check my watch. It's quarter past three.

"Actually, I need to get going now."I say, hurriedly, grabbing my coat and bag from the corner.

Marjorie gives me a look. She knows something's up, and I feel bad for not saying anything. But the thing is I can't...I don't know why. I don't even know how to. But I don't want her to worry about me.

"Marjorie," I say seriously, "I'm okay. Really."

She nods, folding her arms, obviously not buying anything I'm saying. She watches me walk guiltily out of the shop.

I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck, a puff of fog coming out of my mouth when I exhale. At this point, I'd kill to live with someone like Marjorie. My house isn't my home anymore.

I pass Mr Hawshaw's house, and he is actively leaning against his gate and watching me, sending shivers up my spine. He is a large, beer-bellied old man, who spends his days smoking outside his house for hours. One of my Dad's closest friends at the bar. That's how I know to stay away from him.

I trudge through the pile of leaves on the pavement, as I begin to approach the park. Kids are playing on the swings and slides, as parents sit on the benches and chat. I'm not paying attention, until I hear the word "graffiti."

"They need to sort out this graffiti that appears all over the place." A Mother complains to her friend. I stop in my tracks.

"It's very small stuff, but I see it around a lot. I don't think it's harmful. The messages seem quite meaningful."

"It's vandalism, Sally, these teenagers need to be taught some respect. How come nothing is being done about it? And it's right in the park where we take our children. What kind of influence will that have on them?"

"I suppose that's true."

I turn direction, and head towards the park wall, which is covered in chalk drawings anyway from the children. I feel sorry for the public services who have to clean this up. Then it occurs to me-all the graffitied messages I keep seeing won't be there forever. It will get cleaned up. I should probably keep track of them.

I search the wall, until I finally find what I'm looking for: Bright, bold lettering, pink this time, scrawled onto the wall. It has small birds that have been painted around it, and has a lot more detail than the other messages I'd seen so far.

How can I talk to someone, when I don't even have a voice?

The message hits hard. To not have a voice-that's exactly what I feel like.

That's the third time. The third time, now. This isn't a coincidence, Marjorie.

Someone is trying to talk to me.

I take a picture of the art with my phone, before searching around for some more.

"What are you doing?" A little boy is playing in the sandpit near the wall, giving me a confused look. I look back at him.

"I'm looking for words," I say to him, "do you wanna help?"

"Okay," he scrambles up, and dusts himself off, "any words?"

I nod, and he skips off further down the park. A moment later, he returns. "There're words down there." He points, and I eagerly follow him. And sure enough, there are words there; the words I'm looking for. I feel the flicker of a smile dare to play on my lips, but I don't let it. I'm about to say thank you to the boy, until I hear a woman shouting his name and walking towards him. She looks clearly annoyed.

"What are you doing?" At first I thought she was talking to him, but she's talking to me.

"Um. I was just-"

"Stay away from my child," She snaps, grabbing the boy's hand, "I don't want him anywhere near you or your filthy family." And with that, she storms back to the bench, dragging the boy with her.

I feel my jaw clench, before turning back to the graffiti. This one says, "Anniversary-November 4th". I don't know what it means, but I take a photo of it anyway. Maybe if I think about it, it might all add up to something meaningful.

I know Marjorie said to stay away from this, but at this point, it feels like it can't stay away from me.

**********************************

When I get home, I go straight to my room, mumbling a quick hello to Mum and ignoring Timmy's bum existence, and then shut my door.

I throw myself onto my bed, and bring out my phone to stare at the pictures. I haven't been this curious in a while.

Anniversary-November 4th. I don't know what that means. I check the calendar on my wall. I don't know any anniversary of that date.

But I know that the first message was exactly what had been on my mind at the time I'd found it. It's too strange for this to happen three times. I'm not crazy.

Maybe the guardian angel does exist. A human couldn't have read my mind. Even if it wasn't an angel, it had to be something.

This universe is huge. There's so much in it. And the fact that that is true, and I'm still so alone is difficult for me to believe.

Surely there's someone out there who I can talk to.