“She’s doing it again,” he said.
I went to the kitchen window to see. Katie had taken over Gran’s old patio set for her ‘talk parties’, as she called them. She’d snatch fruit from the fridge drawer, and put out cups and plates. “Who’s she talking to, you think?”
He folded his arms over his chest. “Gran, I suppose. I know she misses her. But sometimes she says other names. Does the name ‘Annamarie’ mean anything to you?”
I felt myself go pale. “I think it’s time we talk to someone,” I said.
“No, a psychic.”
98 words. This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the gracious and talented Rochelle. This week’s photo copyright Fatima Fakier Deria. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, or to submit your own, click here.