Standing at the back of the hushed hallway I could only hear every other word the docent was saying. My husband craned his head to listen.
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Something about the woman who lived here and the widow’s walk. I guess the old ship captain died at sea or something.”
Little Herbie stood in the doorway looking across the velvet rope into the child’s room. The tiny beds with chenille spreads, a painted wagon perched on the corner of the hooked rug as though left in play. “She’s still here,” he said, eyes wide. “She’s still waiting.”