The Lost Girl

The moon tends to mist itself over the city on days like this—soft-edged, a little bashful, as if it, too, feels unwelcome above Willow Lane. Streetlights flicker awake before the last belts of daylight are even stitched away, and my pond, or rather my puddle, shivers with the cold and the memory of what once was deeper.

It’s the hour when frogs like me should linger in shadow, tucked sly and safe against the teeth of the world. But I am not quite myself tonight. Something in the girl's small sorrow—something fierce, like a song I used to know—presses at my will.

Nearby, tires squeal, then recede. The lane grows quiet. Only the distant tick of a sprinkler, and the faint sound of a child’s voice, drift through the dark:

"Charlie?" Her hope is tired now—a feather dropped on water. She’s circled our end of the neighborhood three or four times, and even my heart, which is stubborn and unaccustomed to beat for others, aches for her. Her sneaker toe scuffs the curb, trailing a snail in the thin grime.

I peer upward. The hedge beside the gutter bows with old candy wrappers. No dogs, no people. Just one girl, hunched under a streetlight that makes her shadow long as a willow branch. She pulls something from her pocket—a dog collar, bright blue. The tag clicks in her hand, spelling out ‘Charlie’. She clutches it like a lucky pebble.

For a time, I stay as frogs are meant to: hidden, watchful, wishing. It’s safer this way.

But the feeling inside—the wild fizz of marsh-magic and memory—curls around my bones. Maybe, tonight, safety is not the right shape for my skin. Maybe tonight, I need to be seen.

I squeeze my bulk from the leaf-shadow, careful. One hop, barely a slip of green. Then another, in the open. The concrete is cold, scented with car oil and last week’s rain.

She startles as my shape flickers near her sneakers. For a moment, she draws back, hand clutching the collar to her heart.

"Oh!" A pause. "Where did you come from?"

I try not to tremble. Humans are loud, enormous; they sweep away small lives without noticing. But her eyes glitter with the same kind of fright I wear most days—hidden, waiting, lonely. That gives me strange courage.

I croak, deep and careful. Once, then again. My words are fainter than crow-song, but I hope the magic is strong tonight:

“Don’t be afraid. I’m not much of a monster. Just a frog.”

She blinks. "Did you—?" She leans closer.

This close, she smells of wet sock, cheap strawberry gum, and lostness—a blend that’s oddly familiar to frogs and children everywhere.

I croak again, belly fluttering: "Are you... looking for Charlie?"

There is a long, awkward silence. The kind that fills up quickly with fear or laughter, if you’re lucky. She frowns at me. "Did you... make that sound? Was that—'Charlie'?" Her voice climbs upward, hopeful, then sheepish, as she realizes she’s talking to a frog.

She shakes her head. "I’m losing it. First my dog, now I’m talking to frogs."

I wade closer, my reflection flashing gold in a shallow rain puddle. This is the most danger I’ve ever courted for the sake of a human, but the magic in my veins is insistent tonight. I try again:

“Not losing it. Just... listening with both ears.”

I croak as carefully as words will allow. My throat feels too big, my hope a wing flutter.

For a second, the streetlight catches in her eyes, and something almost sparks. She gasps, stumbling back onto her bottom, nearly crushing the toe of her shoe.

“Did you say… ‘listening’?” Her words tremble. She looks at my mouth, then at my eyes, as if searching for the trick. For the string and pulley, like in a magic show. There is none.

I adjust my webbed feet, feeling the tickle of old power—frog-magic, my mother called it, as old as moonwater and as stubborn as pondweed. When it’s needed, it works. Sometimes.

She draws her knees up. “I don’t know what’s happening, but… Can you really understand me?” Her voice is husky-soft.

“Better than most,” I reply, with a low, bubbling croak. The world seems to tilt, just for a moment. My syllables ripple in the gutter, and to my shock, her eyes widen. The spell—the chance, the hope—has held.

She whispers, “You’re not just a frog. Are you some kind of… enchanted?”

I puff my throat, feigning confidence. “A little. Enough for tonight. You’re looking for someone. ‘Charlie’?”

She nods, the collar clutched in her fist. “He’s my dog. I just moved here. He ran off and… I can’t find him. No one else… No one else cares.”

The words sting. The ache of missing—home, friend, self—makes my chest squeeze. I sit taller in the puddle, blinking slow.

“You’re not quite as invisible as you think, you know,” I say. “Not all of us are blind to wanderers on Willow Lane.”

She lets out one small laugh—half relief, half disbelief. “Are you supposed to be my fairy godfrog or something?”

I shrug with a flex of my legs. “I can’t promise fairy god-anything. But I do know these streets. And I saw which way your Charlie ran—beyond the tall grass, past the old construction… toward the fence behind the willow.”

Mia—her name floats from the tag on her knapsack, spelled in fat pink marker—sits up straighter now, caught between skepticism and hope.

“You… really saw?”

I nod, once. “Most of what’s lost on Willow Lane passes through my puddle sooner or later. Dogs, dreams, the odd sandwich crust.”

She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, smudging mud. "Could you help me find him? Truly?" Her voice is small, the sort you offer to secrets or snails.

My answer sighs out of me before I can retreat:

"I will help you. But you'll have to be brave. Sometimes, the places where lost things go are dark, and very small."

She takes a breath. She glances down at herself—fingers grubby, knees grass-stained, shoes scraped and trembling—and then at me, the soggy, unlikely hero.

She nods, solemn as dusk. "Okay, Roger. I'm ready."

She says my name—how did she know? No one ever calls for Roger.

Then I see: the faint shimmer of dew on her sleeve, the echo of old magic cycling through the night. If you listen close, on such a night, even names can find their way home.

So, as the city quiets and the willow bows overhead, a girl and a frog sit side by side on the curb, fear humming low, hope flickering high, and the world just a little changed from how it started. Ready—or almost ready—to be seen.