Even though the wind was quite cold, sweeping up the leaves from the pavement and depositing tem in drifts at the side of the path and against fences, she did not wear a scarf. The sky was overcast and threatened rain, even snow, but she wore no mittens. A yellow cotton dress with dull orange flowers printed on it hung loosely from her slender frame, too much on one side and revealing the majority of a small smooth collar and shoulder. Frail looking arms and legs protruded from the sleeves and skirt, and little sun-browned feet danced in and out of piles of leaves that skirted the trees, clad in worn leather sandals.

Thin hair of an indifferent brown hung mid length around a skinny, freckled face, and its unruly fringe poked into glittering green eyes. I watched her play, the first time, in the park around the corner. It was late autumn, and I wondered where her mother was. I had no difficulty imagining the smiling child had pulled her jumper off in play, for her cheeks were flushed and rosy despite her apparent frailty.

She was separated from me by the road and the high iron gates, and then my bus came. Still, the next day, as I waited, there she was again, unchanged despite the weather being even colder, and her summer attire struck me as less fitting even than it had the first day. When I returned home from work, she was gone. Some days I saw here again, some days she was not there. Once it was very early, and I saw her tiny hand on the rough bark of a tree as she gazed at the rising sun, one foot kicking up the dust behind her as she swung it lazily. I never saw her in the evenings, or when it was crowded, or on the weekends.

I watched her almost every day that winter, but when the summer came and people went about their business earlier in the day, she was not there. I half decided I had imagined her, but never failed to delight in her play. Everything about he seemed too delicate for her health and glowing smile. Over the warm months, I forgot to look for her, focusing instead on my work and family.

As autumn neared again, my youngest son fell ill, and the company I worked for began to struggle. Every day when I came home at night, my son grew weaker. He ate less, smiled less, and spend more time in bed. I sat beside him at night, and read him stories- mysteries and adventures, the ones most full of action. The spark it brought back to his eyes gave me enough hope to keep going through the day, although there was less and less work to do with every passing week. One evening, I read to him of a certain brave soldier. He had grown thinner, and the light fell upon his face so softly that I thought for certain I had lost him, and my breath caught in my throat, but he reached his hand towards me and laid it on the page where I had faltered in my reading and asked what happened next, with childish impatience. I continued, but my mind dwelt on the smallness of his hand, and I was unexpectedly reminded of the little girl.

When he had fallen asleep, I sat for awhile drinking coffee, and racking my brains for well reputed doctors, and new medicines that I had read articles on. The phone rang harshly, shattering the peace within the house, and upon lifting the receiver I found it was a co-worker of mine, who was closer friends with our boss than I was. The company was to close within the month.

It would not have taken me very long to clean out the not only my office but the others in the building, however I spread it out over nearly two weeks so that I could spend more time at home. When I left the office for the last time, I felt the emptiness in my pocket where the key had been as if some ill meaning individual had robbed me of my wallet. The sky seemed heavy again, and to try and lift some of the gloom, I walked home through the park. The exercise refreshed me briefly, and I took unusual joy from watching the squirrels emerging into the dusk.

A sudden short burst of laughter drew my eyes upwards, where they saw, perched in the branches of a tree, the little girl. She held one hand tightly clamped over her mouth, eyes brim full of mirth, like diamonds, trying to suppress a giggle. Despite my leaden mood, and the reluctance of my face to adopt a genuine humour, I could not help but smile back at her. She slid down, using her feet and hands to purchase any slight grip on the trunk, and like the skittering of a mouse she landed softly on the grass.

I watched her, and she looked back up at me, head slightly to one side, curiosity endearingly open across her face. Her weight was forward and she bounced slightly on the balls of her feet. A glow spread through me, followed by a sharp pain. My son had life in him like that so recently, and now he seemed tired and old.

"Why are you so sad?"

Her voice was as small as she was, but stronger. It was also very clear, and soft as if distanced or muffled, yet still as audible as if she had yelled straight in my ear. And although I would have thought it a simple question if presented it in any other way, I found it very hard to answer. There was something so open in her young face, she was unveiled in her intent, acute in her observation. This small girl asked a question for the questions sake, not for any purpose of her own. For a moment, my capsule in the adult world was broken, and I too was a child again, something in her voice struck a chord so deep within me.

When I found my voice again, I had to think on what to say. Kneeling down beside her so my face was level with hers, I could not bring myself to lie to her frank curiosity and desire for learning.

"What's your name?"

"Caela"

"Well Caela, you see, my little boy, he's very sick. I was just worried about him"

She did not frown, or appear upset, or reveal any emotion or thought on the comment whatsoever. Her gaze was unbroken, and her face serene as she absorbed what I had said. Then one little hand dipped into her pocket, and she smiled at me. Holding out in her hand, to a complete stranger, a very small, pretty, blue stone.

"Maybe you could give him this? It's always made me feel better when I was sick"

I stared at it, and at this tiny Caela, who without the slightest hint of selfishness was offering something that must be very special to her- for she was carrying it with her after all- for nothing in return.

"No Caela, its yours, I think you should keep it."

She shook her head quite firmly, and pushed it towards me even further by arching the palm of her hand. The stone rocked slightly, one smooth surface against each other. We stood there for a moment, each decisive in our own course of action and sure that the other was wrong, I on the one hand thinking of her as a child, and yet putting her on the same level as me. She just seemed so sure.

After a brief hesitation, I took it in my fingertips and curled my hand around it, as if it were a thing to be protected. It was warm, inanimate, somehow comforting. I smiled and stood up, and she beamed back at me.

"Thankyou Caela. I'm sure he'll love it"

Her eyes glittered like an elfling, and she turned and skipped away. At the edge of the park she looked back once at me, too stunned to move, and then she ran across the road, and into a small house with a green door. I almost imagined a fog began to settle into the evening air around me, intensifying the dreamlike qualities of what had just happened, but I continued my walk home and the exercise again cleared my mind.

Perhaps the girl had other stones. What a sweet child. I wondered also, if she were lonely, I had seen her playing there alone so often, always in the same light clothing. Perhaps her mother was very poor, and always working. The house was very small. And perhaps this small girl liked to give things to other children. Perhaps it was her way of feeling in contact with the world. Of feeling she had friends.

I gave the small stone to my son, telling him all about the little girl. From his face, he may have thought I was telling a story just to cheer him up, but he took it anyway. He slept, and I read and re-read the newspaper for job advertisements. Over the next few weeks, I attended innumerous interviews, and my son slept at home. He began to eat again though, and often when I read to him at night, he kept an eye on the small blue stone on his bedside table.

I began to work in a small building near my sons school, and on days when he was feeling better, he took to attending for just a few hours, as his strength built up again. By the time Summer rolled in, he was almost fully recovered. I walked home late one evening, rather than catching the bus, because I wanted to admire the weather, and the sky as it turned a beautiful pink.

Inspired with hope, I hardly noticed a young woman emerge from the small cemetary near the park. Even though it was warm, she pulled her coat tightly around her, and seemed haunted and sad. As I passed the corner where the cemetary met the park, her lonely form took a key from its pocket, and opened a green door to a small house.

The next day was a Saturday, and I woke up with the sun. I picked some wild daisies from the garden, and made a short trip down to the cemetary. It didn't take me long to find what I was looking for, because it was very near to the park gate. The tablet was very small, and somehow, when I laid the flowers on it, the beaded dew on their soft petals seemed more than fitting for the single word carved into the surface- 'Caela'

As I left through the wrought iron gate, a squirrel chattered from a nearby tree, late returning to its nest. I turned at the road, and looked back at where the tablet was, almost hidden amongst larger headstones.

"Thankyou"