'Tis be Rose's POV. Enjoy!

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Mom had also told me that, “She was so much like you. You both used to spend all day trying to think of something you two didn’t have in common!”

So I sat on the train, waiting for the big lug to stop.

I was wearing my most treasured shirt, the black and red “The voices told me to” t-shirt. Everyone always stopped to read it, and it always gave them a chuckle when they did, so it made me feel like I wasn’t invisible. Or at least that I wore shirts people wouldn’t expect.

My mom had filled me in on the stuff I’d forgotten after the accident. It wasn’t such a big deal to me; I mean, I survived, so there wasn’t anything to worry about. But my mom thought it would be such a “traumatic” experience for me, so she helped me “cope” with it.

Honestly, I could remember the past 6 years, back until I was 10. But everything before that was a complete blank. It was as if I’d been born at age 10.

I’d learned that the kind people who’d let me stay over at their house in Toronto for a few weeks were also my family; my aunt Bonnie and my two cousins. I’d also learned that the girl and I used to be good friends until I moved away. And, of course, my mom wouldn’t tell me her name. Why did she have to be so mysterious like that? I never liked surprises!

I began to hum to myself. It was Never Too Late, by Three Days Grace. I’d had that song stuck in my head since about a year after I had gotten out of the hospital. I never knew why it was always that song in my head, but as I hummed it, I dismissed the thought, guessing it used to be my favorite song.

And since then, one or more little visuals of me and a little girl with straight, black hair and wearing a white tank-top playing in a sand box, or sliding down a water slide, or walking into the woods together.

Suddenly, I heard the conductor yell, “We’re in Toronto! All passengers that were heading Toronto-ward- all off the train!”

Hmph, that must be me, I thought, as I lugged my suitcase out the door. Once I got outside, I spotted a tall, young-looking woman in a clean, white blouse and a gray knee-length skirt, with her arm around a teenage girl with short, black and blue hair, and, literally, black from her earrings to her combat boots.

How are you gonna handle this, Rosalba? I asked myself.