We were outside that day, just enjoying the rare breeze. I had the baby on my hip, Josie was doing her usual—trying to look like she wasn’t posing—and Caleb clung to his sister like always. It’s not often we’re all still long enough for a photo, but our neighbor Rick happened to be walking by and offered to take it. I didn’t think much of it until later that night.

After I got the kids settled, I found a drawing on the kitchen table. Crayon on the back of a flyer—definitely Caleb’s style. It showed the four of us standing out by the gravel drive, just like we were earlier. My striped shirt, Josie’s red dress, the baby in my arms. All right there. But there was something off.

There was another child in the drawing.

A little girl. Pale yellow dress. Standing just behind Josie, holding her hand.

At first, I figured he must’ve been imagining a friend. He did that sometimes. Ever since he was three, Caleb had a vivid imagination. One time he told us a giant frog lived under the porch and only came out when it rained. Harmless stuff.

But this one felt different.

I called him into the kitchen and asked gently, “Hey buddy, who’s this?” pointing at the mystery girl in the picture.

Caleb smiled like I should already know. “That’s Ava,” he said, as he reached for a banana from the counter.

I blinked. “Ava? Who’s Ava?”

He peeled the banana with the dramatic flair only a five-year-old can pull off and shrugged. “She lives here.”

I laughed nervously. “Oh yeah? Where does she sleep then?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Sometimes in Josie’s bed. Sometimes on the floor next to mine. She doesn’t like when the lights are off.”

Okay. That made my stomach flip a little.

“Have you… have you seen her before?” I asked.

Caleb nodded like it was the most boring thing in the world. “Yeah. She’s always been here. She’s nice. She likes our dog.”

We didn’t have a dog.

I didn’t press it. Not yet. Kids say weird things, and I didn’t want to make it into a big deal. Still, I kept that drawing. Tucked it in the drawer with the bills and paper clips.

That night, I watched Josie sleep. I half-expected to see some little blonde girl curled up beside her. Of course, there was no one. Just the steady rhythm of her breathing, her worn-out bunny tucked under one arm. I stood there for a long time, longer than I probably needed to.

The next few days were quiet. Nothing out of the ordinary. I let myself forget about Ava.

Until I heard Josie talking to someone in her room.

Not whispering, not singing—talking. Real conversation style. I paused outside her door one afternoon while she was supposed to be tidying up.

“No, I told you already,” she said, voice exasperated. “I can’t go with you.”

Silence.

“Because I have school tomorrow.”

Silence again.

I slowly opened the door. She was sitting cross-legged on the rug, picking at the fringe of it. Alone.

“Who were you talking to, sweetheart?”

She looked up, startled. “Nobody.”

“Sounded like somebody,” I said, easing down next to her.

She glanced toward the corner of the room. “Just pretend stuff.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to spook her. But later that night, I found a second drawing—this time by Josie. It was more detailed than Caleb’s. Same scene: the four of us. Plus one.

But Josie’s version had a name scribbled at the bottom. In cursive, as best a seven-year-old could manage: Ava.

This time, the little girl was in front. Her hand holding Josie’s. Her face had more shape to it—soft curls, eyes too big for her head, a tiny smile that didn’t quite reach the edges.

I asked Josie the same question I’d asked Caleb. “Who’s Ava?”

She shrugged. “Just a friend.”

“From school?”

“No.”

“From a show or a book maybe?”

She shook her head. “She’s here. She comes at night.”

That chilled me.

I told my husband, Derek, that night. He laughed it off at first, but when I showed him both drawings, his face changed.

“Maybe they overheard something,” he said. “Or made up a game.”

“Maybe.”

But the next morning, Caleb told me Ava didn’t like it when I closed the closet door in his room.

“She says she gets trapped in there,” he mumbled over cereal.

I froze. “You mean she lives in the closet?”

“No,” he said, like I was missing the obvious. “She just hides there sometimes. From the man.”

That stopped me cold. “What man?”

Caleb shrugged and took another bite. “The one with the boots. He’s loud.”

We don’t wear boots in our house. Neither does Derek. And our neighbors aren’t exactly the stomping type.

I started looking things up. Paranormal forums. Parenting sites. Even historical archives. Our house was built in the ’70s—nothing ancient. No tragic stories I could find. No “girl in yellow” urban legends.

But then I found a blurry newspaper clipping from 1983. It mentioned a fire three streets over. Two children had died. One was named Ava. She’d been seven. The photo was grainy, but the dress looked pale yellow.

I didn’t want to believe it. I printed the article anyway and folded it into my notebook.

For the next few weeks, things got weird.

Lights flickering. Baby toys moving on their own. Once, I woke up to hear a giggle in the hallway. When I checked, the baby was asleep, Josie was snoring softly, and Caleb had wrapped himself in his blanket like a burrito.

Still, I didn’t tell them. I didn’t want to feed into anything. I just stayed watchful.

Until the baby—who’d just started toddling—began reaching up to an empty corner and saying, “Hi.”

I didn’t ask who he was talking to. I was afraid I’d already know.

That’s when I decided to do something about it.

I reached out to a local woman named Claire. Not exactly a medium, more like a spiritual counselor. She came over one afternoon when the kids were at their grandparents.

She walked through the house slowly. Paused at Josie’s room. Closed her eyes and whispered something.

When she was done, she sat at the kitchen table and looked at me gently.

“There’s something here,” she said. “Not malicious. But lost.”

I didn’t even need to say the name.

“She’s looking for someone,” Claire added. “She feels connected to your children. Especially Josie.”

“Why Josie?”

“Josie reminds her of someone. A sister, maybe.”

I sat there, numb. Claire handed me a small sachet of herbs and told me to keep it under Josie’s pillow. Said it would help Ava rest.

That night, I did just that.

Things calmed down for a while.

No more drawings.

No more giggles.

Then, one afternoon, Josie came home with a scrape on her arm. She said she tripped on the curb. Nothing major.

But when I helped her change into pajamas that night, I saw something that made my heart stop.

A perfect little handprint—smaller than hers—was faintly bruised into her shoulder.

Not red. Not angry. Just… there.

Like a goodbye.

I didn’t say anything.

A few days later, Josie woke up and said, “Ava’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“She said thank you. And then she was just… not there anymore.”

I held her close. I didn’t ask questions. I just let her talk.

We never saw the drawings again.

But a few months later, Josie came home from school and asked if we could donate some of her clothes. I asked why.

She looked me in the eye and said, “For kids who don’t get to grow up.”

I swallowed hard and nodded.

We packed a few bags that weekend.

Time passed. Caleb forgot, mostly. The baby never mentioned anything again. And Josie—well, Josie carried it with quiet grace. Like she’d seen something she wasn’t supposed to, but chose to honor it instead of fear it.

Then something surprising happened.

That summer, we got a call from the adoption agency we’d signed up with over a year ago. We’d almost forgotten—we’d been told the waitlist was long.

But they had a little girl. Newly available. Needed placement urgently.

We weren’t sure we were ready. Financially, emotionally. But when they sent her picture, I couldn’t stop staring.

Pale yellow dress.

Soft curls.

Not Ava, of course. But the resemblance was uncanny.

Her name?

Savannah.

We met her a week later.

She was shy, sweet, and smiled more with her eyes than her mouth.

Josie took her hand immediately.

Caleb offered her half his gummy worms, which was a big deal.

The baby clapped when she walked into the room.

And just like that—without warning or fireworks—we became a family of six.

Later that night, I found Caleb sitting on the porch, crayons in hand.

He was drawing again.

This time, it was all of us—me, Derek, the baby, Josie, Savannah… and a small shadow in the background. Barely visible.

I sat next to him.

He looked up and said, “She’s happy now.”

“Who?”

“Ava.”

And that’s when I finally let go of the fear.

Because some stories don’t end in screams or slamming doors.

Some stories end in peace.

And sometimes, the heart knows things long before the mind catches up.

So if your child draws an extra person, or talks to someone who “isn’t there,” don’t be quick to dismiss it. Listen. Ask. Love more.

Because maybe—just maybe—there’s more to this world than we understand.

And sometimes, helping a spirit rest brings your own family a gift you never expected.

A little girl in yellow gave us a little girl in yellow.

Maybe that was her way of saying goodbye.

Or maybe… it was her way of saying thank you.

If this story touched you, please share it with someone who needs to believe in small miracles. And give it a like—so more hearts can find it.