Sylvie Counts the Quiet — Each evening, after the iron gate clicked shut, Sylvie swept her broom over Briarrest Cemetery and tried her little challenge: count every bat before the moon climbed past the tallest cloud. Read the full story →
Each evening, after the iron gate clicked shut, Sylvie swept her broom over Briarrest Cemetery and tried her little challenge: count every bat before the moon climbed past the tallest cloud. The air smelled of cold stone and dry leaves, and her broom bristles whispered shush-shush over the crooked paths. She liked the graveyard best when it was awake in small ways—grass ticking, stars pricking open, wings flickering black against silver.
Then one night, the bats would not fly in order. Three dipped behind the bare tree, two vanished near the cracked skull stone, and one tiny bat circled Sylvie’s hat as if it had forgotten the sky. Because of that, Sylvie slowed to listen. Because of that, she heard a soft clink-clink from the gate: the wind had hooked a loose chain where the bats usually slept.
“Hold still, little night,” Sylvie whispered. She looped her scarf around the chain, and the gate sighed open just enough for the bats to stream through like spilled ink. She did not finish counting them. She only floated there, exactly in the hush that knew her name. Next time you spot the moon above the gate, see if you can find the bat that made Sylvie forget her numbers.
