by Damyanti Ghosh
They came calling before the night had reached its darkest hour. She knew it was her they called though her eyes were closed and she lay, curled in her tiny bed, un-sleeping but not quite awake. Their calls came, setting the curtains flying like sails at high sea, puffed with the force of their cries. They called again, in a rising chorus that would have woken the dead in her family and her neighborhood, had those people not already risen before in answer to these very calls. She curled her small toes into each other, turned her head, breathed in the laundry smell of the pillow case, felt the swish of satin against the down on her face. She lay there, quiet in the dark, till the lightening of dawn, wondering when they would realize that she knew it was her they called, and that she would make no answer.
Damyanti Ghosh is a writer of short stories, some of which are forthcoming in various print anthologies. You can find her here.