Through the dusty window, he could just make out a face. A solemn one, pale. Ghostly, one might say. And then, just as slowly as the curtains had parted, they closed again.

 

Spying no other activity around the grounds, the man still slowed his vehicle to a stop on the gravel drive. Obviously someone was home, so what was the harm. Making his way toward the splintered front porch, he cautiously applied his weight to the creaking steps and ascended to the door. He looked around for a doorbell, but didn’t see one.

 

With a little tug, the resistant screen door dislodged from its seal of rust, and the man raised a hesitant hand to the wooden door behind it to knock.

 

Gently, tap-tap-tap.

 

Nothing.

 

A little firmer, tap-tap.

 

Nothing.

 

Drawing his fist back for added momentum, he was just about to offer a solid, last-resort pound when the opening door startled him. He peered right into the spectre’s eyes. A lady, still and pale as death.

 

“Ah, hello, ma’am,” he said as he removed his hat. “Excuse the intrusion, but I was just, well, I uh, was wondering if——”

 

“I ain’t interested in buyin’ nothin’,” she said, her voice barely audible but her gaze not nearly so weak.

 

“And I’m not interested in selling, I promise you. Actually, I’m looking to buy.” He saw her grip stiffen on the door and could only imagine what she’d thought he meant. Before she could respond, he rushed out with, “Antiques, that is. I’m a collector, and I was just driving up the road and saw your shed? That one there with the open door? I couldn’t help but notice some clay pots and wrought-iron work. I was wondering if, perhaps, I might have a look?”

 

Her fingers, white and red with pressure against the door, loosened and turned a healthier shade of pink. She nodded, then opened the door enough to let herself outside on the porch. She appeared to step out onto it with the same caution as the man had approached the steps. Might she have known of rotted wood? Termites? But no; her grounded hesitation was more that of felon who’d just made parole after thirty years and suddenly watched what he’d wished for.

 

Light breath rattled through her chest when, with a deep inhale, she fisted her hands and marched past the man and over to the shed. The weathered corrugated metal of its walls, on closer inspection, looked as though a baby’s breath might knock it down, so it was with apprehension that the man followed her inside. An apprehension lost the second his foot tapped against a stoneware jug.

 

He whistled through his teeth. “These are some nice pieces you’ve got here. If you don’t mind…” He hoisted a jug to inspect for its potter’s imprint. “Whoo, boy. Yeah. You’re sitting on something special here, that’s for sure.”

 

He knew better than to play his usual bluff; he wanted to make a profit, but this owner was too easy a target, too fragile, too…

 

“It ain’t for sale.”

 

His chin retreated into his neck in backlash at the note of finality in her voice. “No? What if we nego——”

 

“It’s non-negotiable.”

 

“Well, all right, all right. Just for this? Maybe something else, then?”

 

With watery eyes she looked around her, and a rapid double intake of breath seemed to fill her chest involuntarily. The man thought he could almost see and hear her heart beating through that thin floral-print housedress of hers. A breeze from the door swept errant caramel strands from her face like a dance partner wanting to spin them in a waltz. He couldn’t read the expression on her face; it was as if she was looking at everything for the first time and the last.

 

After a reverent pause, the man spoke up. “These are, uh, these are important to you? Everything here?”

 

Without a word, the woman merely shook her head.

 

Cocking a brow, the man matched her silence and waited.

 

Finally, she spoke. “No, they mean nothin’ to me. But they’d meant everythin’ to him.”

 

He saw the cartilage rise and fall in her neck and followed her gaze over to a pair of tiny clay pots setting on a riding mower. Her left index finger twitched outward to them, then lifted the rest of her arm as it reached to snatch one of the pots up. She likewise hooked the second pot with her middle finger and brought them to her bosom. The man only just noticed the thin band of silver wrapped around her ring finger.

 

Crushing his hat in his own fingers, he watched as she polished the little pots’ ridges with her thumbs. He cleared his throat. “I’ll uh…I’ll just be seeing myself out, ma’am. Thank you for obliging a stranger.” With light crunches on the dirt, he’d made his way just outside the shed door when:

 

“Sir?”

 

He turned around. “Yes, ma’am?”

 

“I, I would be obliged if you did take it. Free of charge.” She lifted one of the tiny pots and swept it in a circular whisper of motion.

 

“Oh, I, uh...I couldn’t.”

 

“But please do. I insist.”

 

Still wringing his hat, he said, “Well, if it would please you.”

 

The rise and fall of that cartilage again. “It would.”

 

The man reached out to grasp the little pot, but she yanked it back before he could.

 

Looking from his empty fingers to her face, he let out a little laugh and once again turned to leave, but she drifted swiftly past him and through the door first. Shaking his head, the man followed her out and, as he walked to his car, kept his head turned toward her, who now crept at the side of what appeared a neglected garden. She resembled an animal clawing through the dirt and weeds.

 

Reaching his car door, he opened it and turned to yell out a “Thank you, ma’am, and goodbye!” when the words caught in his throat. She was standing right there, inches from him, having crossed that distance so instantly as if by otherworldly means. He felt the hair at his neck prickle.

 

“I didn’t mean for you to take it empty, sir. This here’s nutrient-rich soil. Dry now, but rich.”

 

Sure enough, packed inside the little pot was a scoop of earth with a green sprig planted at its center.

 

“It ain’t much, and I don’t know if anythin’ll come of it. But he, you know, he could bring anythin’ back to life.” She again ran a thumb around the rim of the sister pot that remained empty. “And I reckon if you could bring me back to life that little bit you just did now, you might have a fightin’ chance with this one.”

 

She held it out with a thin smile stretched across her face, which appeared to the man not as plain as he’d first thought.

 

“Why, I… Well, thank you, ma’am.” He uncrumpled his hat and placed it back on his head, only to tip it to her. Taking the offered earthenware pot from her dirt-dusted hand, he nodded and withdrew into his car.

 

But before he could shut his door, the woman called out, “And when will you be comin’ back for the rest of it? With a truck to fit it all?”

 

She gave that timid smile again. Standing there, squinting in the sun, she pointed back to the shed as she tucked the other tiny pot into her apron pocket.