The Little Ghost

June 8, 2008 at 6:51 am (Journaling, Writing Exercises) (, )

There’s a little ghost peering out a window, the window where she died a couple months ago. The room that window belongs to has become her haunting grounds. She sits, blowing frost on the windowpane and making little marks. It’s hard to distract the little ghost; so closely does she watch and wait for his return. He might, after all, return. The man who murdered her might return to the scene of the crime. Don’t they all, in the end, return to the scene of the crime? She ticks off days in the frost, and doesn’t notice when it turns into years. She doesn’t notice when no one, not even her murderer, returns to the window, to the room. She doesn’t notice when they all disappear. The little ghost is so intent on her marks she doesn’t notice the gray dust thickening over the tables, the chairs, the books. She glances up when they take the books away, but only to search the faces of the movers. None of their faces were his. She fails to notice the cobwebs, and the crumbling edges of the window frame. The little ghost is so intent and focused she doesn’t even feel it when the building falls, and doesn’t even blink when her window looks out only into rubble. He’ll come, she’s sure. They always return to the scene of the crime, don’t they?

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