A little girl, no older than seven, hangs around the playground at Edenvale Park.
Her hair is curly and blonde. Her dress is black and her eyes are the color of honey.
She’s always there, climbing on the playgym or running in the grass with the other kids. Everyone knows her, and welcomes her into their games.
Nobody remembers her name.
Everyone remembers her voice, though. Even the adults. It never occurs to them that they’ve never heard her speak.
She never leaves.
Or rather, sometimes they do. Sometimes, someone will wonder why she’s wearing nothing but a dress in the middle of winter. Then they’ll wonder (a little more urgently) where her parents are, or why (and here's where people will suddenly find it quite hard to think properly) why she hasn't aged for as long as they can remember, even back when they were children, playing in the park. . .
And then the thought will die, leaving them slightly puzzled but otherwise content. They’ll go back to reading or chatting or watching their children in peace.
At night, when all are gone, she changes, and the park changes with her.
The soccer field grows. Logic and geography twist themselves as acres and acres of space are crammed into the little park. Yellow flowers steeped in light sprout up, and the yellow leaks out of her hair. The dark of her dress drains away to white as black masses of curls top her head.
Her eyes leak sunlight.
No matter what kind of night it is on the outside, here in the park, it is clear. The moon is always full. The air is filled with a voiceless song, and she smiles.
The moonlight doesn’t cast her shadow.