When the girl died, she left with a smile. It was the dead of winter, and she was wrapped in her fur coat, shivering through the night. She sat by the pond, her favourite place in the entire world, as her lips and limbs turned blue. She perished without notice, her body fading into the mist, and she was satisfied. She left quietly, contentedly, but filled with mourning over her pond.

Don’t forget me, the ghost girl whispered into the water before her. Standing, she gracefully tossed a stone into the pond, saying her goodbyes to the little corner of life she loved so dearly. Gently, the ripples of the pond blurred the reflection of her face, and she stepped away from the water.

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The girl was pale, and her hair was so blonde as to be white. Her warm brown eyes were framed by soft eyelashes, vaguely curving against her cheeks. She walked through the snow in her brown fur coat, small snowflakes landing on her hair. Hands shoved into her coat, her pink-blue lips whispered melodies so beautiful even the birds stopped to listen. As she walked down the tree-shaded path away from the pond, her silhouette disappeared into the snow. After a few moments, not even her footprints remained.

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It was that same winter when the pond froze, and a little boy nearly drowned from falling through the ice. He was skating with his sister when the pond shattered. It was a miracle, the neighbours said. One minute little Bobby was floundering in the water and the next, he was safe on the shore. No one could believe it as truth, but the ghost girl saw, and she knew.

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That spring, the local government announced that the pond was to be drained and the forest logged to make space for a golf course. It was a shame, the residents said. All that beauty destroyed, and for what? When the construction crews came to kill the land, a little girl threw herself at their feet and begged for them to stop. 

Please, please, she cried, not the pond. Please don’t destroy the pond.

And to the ghost girl’s delight, they didn’t.

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In the summer, two young women got married by the pond. It was beautiful, the guests said. They wore peach-coloured dresses and drank white wine in the sunset while rocking in each other’s arms. The ghost girl watched, spellbound and wistful.

The taller woman said to her wife, there’s something special about this pond, and the shorter one said, yes, yes, I think there is. 

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In the fall, the local school hosted a fundraiser at the pond. 

Buy some drinks for the war effort, the children called, shouting through the woods in their knitted sweaters and brown boots. 

It was a tragedy, the parents said, to have a war right when things were starting to look up in the world. 

Sipping cider and drinking hot cocoa by the fire, the ghost girl watched as they cried for their loved ones overseas, fighting against hatred and oppression. The pond still shimmered and the leaves still fell, but their ruby red seemed dull against the violence of spilled blood.

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Time passed and soon it was winter again. The snow fell and the pond grew cold, and the ghost girl came back and walked through the trees. She felt the sturdy branches and dying leaves and saw that even as the kids grew older and the world recovered from war, still the pond remained. 

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It was life, the people said. This pond, this forest, this world. It grew and changed, but it was life, and it was miraculous and shameful and beautiful and tragic. And the ghost girl knew it would never be forgotten, and neither would she, because she was there, right there with the pond and the trees. It was her life, and she loved it: ice, golf, wine, cider, and all.

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