It happens one fine fall day, when Mommy and you are outside playing on the porch. Well, she is sweeping and you are cheerfully crinkling through her leaf piles, but that's just the same as playing to you.

Sometimes people from the village below the wooded hill you live on come up to your house and speak to your mommy about things, although you're never entirely sure what they talk about. Sometimes when people come, Mommy goes with them and comes back a little later looking tired and proud, and then she tells you a new story about a powerful monster-slayer before bed that night.

So today when somebody runs up the stairs, huffing and puffing and red in the face, you think nothing of it at all. You don't notice the way Mommy's face goes white when the somebody tells her their story, and in fact you only raise your head from your inspection of the leaf kingdom when you hear her broom clatter against the stones, and she walks towards you with a strange face, hugs you tightly.

She sits you down on the steps, kisses your forehead, and gets down to look you in the eyes before gently saying "Don't worry, kiddo. I'll be right back, okay?"

And you believe her.

You hug your toy turtle close to your chest, kick your legs, and nod, smiling without a clue why she was being so serious all of the sudden. Okay. Okay.

You trust her.

You believe her.

Mommy will be right back, you think, playing idly with the autumn leaves that have fallen onto the porch since the two of you swept.

Mommy is going to be back soon, you think, ignoring the shiver that passes through you every so often as the sun sets, wind blows, and still no noise from the path to your house.

Mommy will be here in the morning, you say out loud after you've reluctantly trundled back indoors, huddled under the futon's blanket, screwing your eyes shut and trying very hard to ignore the howling noises outside.

Mommy will be here tonight, you say very loudly, to absolutely no one at all after you wake up and clumsily try to make breakfast for yourself - which culminates in a lot of spilled water and dry rice all over the floor and you gnawing, discontented, on an apple instead.

Mommy is going to come back, you whisper to yourself after another day has come and gone with no familiar woman at the door and no warm hugs and no smiling faces.

It is two weeks before anyone at all comes to the door, in fact.

And it isn't your mother.