Late afternoon. Through the distant scream of a million cicadas Murray heard music. A tall, slender dark skinned man stood on a corner playing saxophone. A pensive tune, the music bouncing off dilapidated buildings, display windows covered in dust, littered alleyways. A slight breeze caught a bill in the man’s open case and he stopped abruptly, chasing the bill a few feet and stomping it in place. He returned the bill to the case and closed it, started to play again.

Hands in pocket Murray looked to the left, then to the right. A few people exited doors of random buildings and then stood by the trolley stop. At regular intervals a dusty, grimy trolley would clang up to the curb. Passengers stumbled and struggled on, carrying baggage, boxes and bags; maybe some carried hope.

The streets of Lurleen were mostly empty, though.

He was hot, tired, hungry and broke. He could feel dust grind between his teeth. His handkerchief was filthy from wiping his sweating brow, dirt lining the creases in his skin. His spirit itched for water. It wouldn’t even have to be cool water. Not even necessarily needed to be terribly clean.

As his hand fell to his side something light and cool touched it.

“Good afternoon, sir! You’ll come with me,” she said with an odd, bit disconcerting but still delightful continental accent.

The bow in her hair just reached the top of his sack coat. A tiny thing, dressed in calico, dark boots. A doll in the crux of her left arm.

He drew his hand back.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, “I think you have the wrong person.”

“No, sir, we are here for you. William Murray, yes?”

Looking around, attempting to make sense of his reality.

“ah… Yes… Wim… yes…”

“This way, sir,” again and again.

She gave Murray a look that was at once knowing and innocent.

They say an old soul is a soul that’s been reborn many times over. They come out of the womb knowing how to make someone feel valuable, knowing how to comfort you, how to make a friend laugh at a funeral, wise beyond their years.

A star child, however, that’s an altogether different creature.

A star child is a soul that’s lived eons and eons, traveled the known and unknown universe. Twice. A star child has stood upon suns and brought the tea to the Creator. Yet they’ve never lived among the rest of us. The soul of a star child is wholly new to our world.

This child was somewhere in between.

She had the kind of eyes that reached inside you, brushed aside your vanity, and lightly kissed the cheeks of your inner demons.

There was a spirit inside of her that easily lifted every soul that could see her.

She led him along the dirty streets of Lurleen. On time, she delivered him to a large house. Light blue with white trim. Four balconies in front, a common door in the middle.

Up the stairs and to the rear – “This way, Mr. Murray,” – she walked him through a door and into a very small apartment. A combination kitchen and living space, through a bath, and to a bedroom lined with windows on three sides. Barely an inch between them and the sleigh bed, darkness falling outside the windows. Sodium lights beginning to shine through the trees, on the verge of overcoming the setting sun.

“I have no money,” he said to her quietly.

“Mr. Murray, please wash up and you can join me in the kitchen!” She said brightly.

She skipped through the bathroom and out into the living space. He could hear the sound of glass touching.

Water was free. He availed himself of the cool water from the bathroom sink. He cooled his arms under the faucet, rinsed his filthy kerchief, wiped his neck and face.

Stepping into the studio he found her sitting at a small table set with saucers and teacups, beaming.

“Child,” he started, “I cant…”

“Mr. Murray,” she cut him off, “we do not require a down payment. We simply ask that you pay when you have the means. However, you will be asked to leave after 3 weeks of non-payment. Its one dollar, fifty cents for three days. Dinner included.”

“Not breakfast?”

She glanced away. “We do not, regularly, rise in time for breakfast.”

He sipped the hot coffee from the teacup.

“Tres bon, no?” she asked.

“Strong,” he replied and she giggled.

We all carry the weight of our sins. We trudge through life trying to bear, yet ignore, the crushing guilt, not understanding we could be forgiven.

“I’ll leave you to it, Mr. Murray,” she said, “you will find clean sheets in the cupboard. Tomorrow you will explore Lurleen and find treasure, I think. We will look in on you tomorrow or the next day.”

She stood, straightened her bow and smoothed her dress. A slight curtsey and she turned to the door.

“Wait,” he said, “What is your name, child?”

She stopped, turned, and paused.

“Marie Clem.”