By the time Angel turned two, people in the neighborhood had begun to talk. Not openly, not loudly—but the whispers were everywhere.

  The strange baby. The one who talked too early. The one who knew things she shouldn’t know.

  Emily tried to ignore it. Every afternoon she dressed Angel warmly and took her downstairs to the small community garden. Children played on the swings while old people sat on benches and dogs barked in the distance. Life continued as if nothing unusual had happened.

  Angel sat quietly in her stroller.

  Watching.

  Always watching.

  One of the few people who wasn’t afraid of her was Mrs. Wang.

  Everyone called her Grandma Wang. She lived alone in the apartment building next to ours. Her son worked overseas and rarely visited, but every afternoon she came down to the garden with a small bag of candy in her pocket.

  And she adored Angel.

  “What a beautiful child,” she would say every day without fail.

  She would lean over the stroller and pinch Angel’s cheek gently. “Such bright eyes. Just like a little angel.”

  Angel never smiled.

  But she never looked away either.

  That afternoon the sky was pale and quiet. A thin breeze moved through the trees. Emily stood nearby hanging laundry on a portable rack while I sat on a bench watching Angel.

  Mrs. Wang pushed the stroller slowly along the garden path, chatting to Angel the whole time.

  “My son called yesterday,” she said cheerfully. “He says maybe he’ll come home this winter. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  Angel looked at her carefully.

  Mrs. Wang laughed softly. “What? Do you understand me?”

  Angel lifted her hand and pointed at Mrs. Wang’s chest.

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  “Black.”

  Mrs. Wang blinked. “What’s black?”

  She looked down at her sweater. “Did I spill something?”

  Angel’s finger didn’t move.

  “Inside.”

  The breeze in the garden seemed to stop.

  Mrs. Wang chuckled awkwardly. “Inside what?”

  Angel’s voice was quiet, almost curious.

  “Your heart.”

  A chill ran slowly down my spine.

  Mrs. Wang laughed again, but this time the sound was thinner. “Well that’s not very nice to say.”

  Angel continued calmly.

  “Next Wednesday.”

  Mrs. Wang frowned. “Next Wednesday what?”

  Angel’s eyes never left her face.

  “Nine o’clock.”

  Silence settled between them.

  “Stop.”

  Mrs. Wang’s smile faded.

  “What do you mean?”

  Angel spoke the last sentence softly.

  “Your heart stops.”

  The garden suddenly felt colder.

  Mrs. Wang stared at the child, her hands gripping the stroller handle. Then she forced another laugh.

  “Children say strange things.”

  She quickly turned the stroller around and pushed Angel back toward the building.

  Emily met us at the entrance.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” Mrs. Wang said quickly. “Kids say silly things.”

  But her hands were shaking.

  That evening she didn’t come down for her usual walk.

  The next day the garden bench where she normally sat remained empty.

  And the day after that.

  On the fourth day the building manager knocked on her door. There was no answer. He knocked again.

  Still nothing.

  Finally they called the police.

  The door was forced open.

  Mrs. Wang was found lying on the living room floor.

  Peaceful.

  Still.

  The medical examiner later estimated the time of death.

  Heart failure.

  Approximately Wednesday night at nine o’clock.

  Exactly as Angel had said.

  No one could prove the conversation in the garden had happened—no one except me, Emily, and Mrs. Wang.

  But rumors spread anyway.

  Rumors always do.

  People began whispering something new now.

  Something darker.

  That the child could see death.

  Some said she was cursed.

  Others said she was possessed.

  One neighbor whispered that she must be the reincarnation of some restless spirit.

  Emily stopped taking Angel to the garden. She bought hats and masks for the child when they went outside, trying to hide her, trying to make her invisible.

  But fear spreads faster than truth.

  And fear had already begun to grow.

  A week later I heard two neighbors talking in the hallway, their voices barely above a whisper.

  “That Lin family’s child…”

  “She knew the old woman would die.”

  “Maybe it was coincidence.”

  “Or maybe…”

  They didn’t finish the sentence.

  They didn’t need to.

  Because the thought had already taken root in everyone’s mind.

  Something was wrong with that child.

  Something deeply wrong.

  That night I stood in Angel’s bedroom doorway watching her sleep, her small chest rising and falling slowly.

  Peacefully.

  She looked like any other child—fragile, innocent, quiet.

  But I couldn’t stop thinking about Mrs. Wang lying alone on the floor.

  At exactly nine o’clock.

  Angel shifted slightly in her sleep.

  Then murmured something softly.

  I leaned closer to listen.

  Her voice was barely audible.

  Just a whisper.

  “More.”

  My blood turned cold.

  Because it didn’t sound like a child asking for something.

  It sounded like someone who had seen something—

  And was waiting for the next one.