“I understand.” The man hung up, and she tore up his card.
Indeed, ghosts are strange things. They hurt you, but they also keep you alive.
At the corner, she turns left. Half a block ahead, she stops. The house—their house—looks tired and in desperate need of a coat of paint. Regardless, the sight brightens her mood.
Through the gate, the garden welcomes her with the smell of roses, and verbena, and honeysuckle, diluting the woods to a tolerable after taste. Left of the entry path, a massive eucalyptus stands as wide as it is tall, its branches touching the house, its leaves caressing the windows.
Twilight is nearly over. An orchestra of crickets softly calls the night to come and play.
Now it’s safe to close her eyes.
“What is it?” she a...
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