• I remember her so well that day. It was autumn, the weather chilly, the gentle wind caressing her and flicking her mahogany, curled hair softly over her shoulder. She had tied bold red ribbons into it: so silky, so smooth, they fluttered like vibrant streamers. She wore the coat I had gotten her the previous Christmas – a 50’s-style, black, buttoned one that bloomed out from the waist. It was open, the coat ties flapping about her legs, although I know the cold would have been the last thing on her mind then. The pink, cashmere jumper, with the v-neck and tight sleeves, was just visible underneath, as was the simple, knee-length skirt, also black. Her patterned tights were laddered from the tree in the garden she was so fond of, and her black, flat shoes were scuffed and dirty. The silver buckles that held those shoes to her feet were tarnished and worn.

    When I came out into the garden and saw her, I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak; I could only stare. She was so eerie, so pure; so silent. Her eternal gaze pierced my soul like a sharpened knife, those glassy green eyes unblinking. A leaf, gold with dappled flecks of orange and red, broke away from the tree it belonged to and brushed against her soft, blushed cheeks. She had beautiful skin, and looked like a china doll; perfect and pristine. Her thin, pink lips were slightly open, her teeth just about visible.

    I approached her, my heart beating frenzy, looking at her under her favourite oak tree. I reached up and touched her hand, stirring her suspended body slightly, her feet high from the floor, the rope tight around her neck.