I was five pints down when I set off home across the park. I normally didn’t go that way—a bloke’s body had been found there last week, drained of blood—but it was brass monkeys, and I was drunk enough to take the chance.

Hurrying along, head bent against the freezing wind, I thought about Annie. She’d loved this time of year: the Christmas trees, the lights, and of course the presents. No matter how much I drank, the ache of her absence never seemed to go away.

That’s probably why I didn’t notice the girl until I almost ran into her. She was small—under ten, I guessed—and stood in the middle of the path in a jacket too thin for the weather.

“Whoa,” I dodged past, then slowed. What was a young girl doing out alone on a night like this?

“Can you help me, sir?” Her voice was high with a London twang.

Keep walking, don’t get involved. The thought of that bloodless body flashed into my head—but that was probably some gang shit, and this was just a little kid.

I stopped, turned. What if it was my kid? I’d want someone to help, wouldn’t I?

Her shoulders were hunched, her head down. She looked so small and fragile, like Annie, with the same pale, almost colorless hair. But this girl was filthy, and smelled briny, like rotten seaweed. And she was close-lipped, while Annie always smiled.

“Can I come to your house? To get warm. Please?”

My heart clenched at the desperation in her voice.

She raised her head. In the gloom her eyes looked black—no whites, just bottomless darkness, like the sea on a starless night.

I tumbled back into the past, into those moments I’ve relived so many times. Knee-deep in icy water, my numb hands submerged. Reaching, grabbing, pulling. Screams echoing around me, mingling with the cries of seagulls.

“Sir?”

I blinked myself back into the present. Those black eyes still stared. The girl hadn’t moved.

“Course I’ll help,” I slurred, embarrassed about the tears on my face. It was so cold they stung. The girl wasn’t showing any signs of hypothermia, but still I shook off my coat and draped it over her shoulders.

“Thank you.” She turned away.

Her eyes… probably just a trick of the light. Or maybe I was more pissed than I thought.

I fell into step beside the girl. She seemed to know where she was going, and a small sober voice in my head wondered whether this was a good idea, but it felt too late to back out.

We walked across the park, past the playground where I used to take Annie, its broken fence and rusty equipment sparkling with frost. I pulled the sleeves of my jumper over my fingers, huffing on them to try and keep warm.

I thought I could sense the girl’s eyes on me, but each time I turned to her she was looking away or studying the ground intently.

“How old are you?” I asked, but she chewed her cheek, avoiding my gaze.

“I have a daughter. Had a daughter. About your age.”

My ears started to ring, like a siren was going off somewhere nearby.

“If you were my daddy, I’d never leave you,” she said—or at least that’s what it sounded like, with everything sounding underwater.

“What?” I looked at her sharply, but she was staring straight ahead, like she hadn’t spoken at all.

I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, not keeling over. Next time I went drinking, I’d eat something more substantial than a couple of packets of peanuts.

Finally, the ringing quietened, then cleared.

“I said I bet you were a great dad.” The girl’s lips twitched upwards, just slightly.

I tried not to think about that night—the night I failed Annie.

We left the park, the darkness giving way to the dim relief of streetlights, then crossed the main road into my cul-de-sac. The fetid beach stench got stronger. I tried to breathe through my mouth. This poor girl hadn’t had a bath for ages.

“I’ve still got her clothes. You could borrow some for tonight… or tomorrow.”

I had a vision of me and this girl, sitting on my sofa, her in Annie’s old pyjamas, drinking hot chocolate, watching Elf and laughing. Maybe she could stay longer than a night. I still had Annie’s room set up, exactly the same as she left it. That’s what finally drove away my wife… ex-wife. She said I’d never move on—like it was something you could move on from.

We walked up my weed-strewn path, the security light clicking on. As I opened the door, the girl finally looked right at me.

In the sudden brightness I could see it was no trick: her eyes were voids, reflecting emptiness upon emptiness. I staggered back, tripping on a rogue garden gnome, but I somehow managed to stay on my feet. I wanted to turn and run, back to the pub and the safety of my pint.

The girl brushed a hand against my sleeve.

Her features seemed to blur and change. Her eyes softened. How hadn’t I noticed before? The curve of her lip, the dimple on her cheek, were so familiar.

I saw it all, then. Dragging my daughter out of the sea and onto the shingle, her wet hair clumped with pebbles. Pumping at her chest, blowing into her slack mouth, her body freezing despite the warm summer air.

“Can I come inside?”

“Of course, sweetheart.” I was weeping now, and too far gone to be embarrassed about it.

“Are you coming, too?”

She put out her hands; hands I’d held a thousand times.

I reached for her. “Annie.”

Her fingers, ice cold, entwined with mine.

The girl flashed me a smile. Too late, I noticed her sharp little teeth as we stepped over the threshold.