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Every so often, they rise from their graves and come back in ghost-form, on nights when it’s just the right balance between cold and too cold.

They’re coming tonight, but I’m only waiting for you.

Faint humming sounds wind their way through the streets, in the watery light of the streetlamps that spills through the open window. Something rushes past, becoming visible as it seeps through the screen door.

What can you give a ghost?

I take out bundles of blankets and make hot tea. It doesn't touch. It doesn’t drink. But it twines around the steam that rises from the cup to show its thanks.

When I wake bleary-eyed the next morning, it’s already slipped out, back through the crack in the window, leaving your touch lingering against my skin, your smile haunting my moves, a pile of blankets, and a cup of cold, untouched tea.

Without thinking, I pour the tea into the flowerbed on my windowsill. The next day, I notice that the blossoms have bloomed a little brighter.


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