He stood in the corner of the living room, watching M eat a chocolate pie. She ate it with a focused, brutal grief, scraping the tin until the sound set his non-existent teeth on edge. He wanted to reach out, to tell her that the house wasn't empty, but his hands were only folds of fabric. When he moved, the world didn't ripple; he was the ripple.
He didn't die; ghosts don't have that luxury. Instead, he fell back into the beginning. He stood in the corner of the living
The white linen was no longer a bedsheet; it was a weight. Underneath it, C did not feel like a man, but like the memory of a smell—old cedar, floor wax, and the faint, metallic tang of a piano string. When he moved, the world didn't ripple; he was the ripple
He looked out the window at the house next door. Another figure stood there, draped in a floral-patterned sheet."I’m waiting for someone," the floral ghost signaled through the glass."Who?" C thought."I don't remember," the neighbor replied. The white linen was no longer a bedsheet; it was a weight