The Red Balloon Girl
I didn't want to walk that morning. I hadn’t wanted to walk any morning for weeks. But the silence in my apartment had become unbearable — like the air was too thick to breathe, filled with echoes of everything that used to be.
So I walked.
The park was nearly empty. Just birds, some early joggers, and one lone girl. She couldn't have been older than five. She wore a yellow coat that didn’t match the gray of the sky and clutched a red balloon so bright it almost glowed.
I tried not to stare. But she stared right at me. Eyes like polished stones, calm and curious.
A Wordless Invitation
As I passed, she didn’t speak. She just held out the balloon.
I stopped. Hesitated. She nodded slowly — not smiling, but not sad either. I took the string, and the balloon rose just a little higher. It pulled gently at my wrist like it had somewhere to be. Like it wanted to fly, but kindly waited for me to let go first.
When I looked down, the girl was gone.
The Note
It took me a moment to notice the folded piece of paper tied near the knot of the balloon. I almost didn’t open it. Almost let it fly. But something — grief, instinct, luck — made my fingers unwrap it.
"Keep walking. She’s watching. You’re not alone."
That’s when I sat down on the bench and cried. Right there, in the middle of the quiet park. Not loud. Just enough. The kind of crying that leaves your shoulders soft again.
Because I knew who the note was from.
The Balloon Floats On
Some days, I wonder if she was real. If the balloon girl exists in more than just my memory. But when the sky goes gray and the wind feels just right, I always seem to find a red balloon tied to the old willow by the bench. Always.
And I keep walking.
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