The Wildflower and the Poltergeist

∙ regrets ∙

The pages of the calendar flew by—time was a flux, and it even managed to overwhelm someone who had already crossed the realm of the living. Three months equaled to ninety days—about less than a quarter of a year. Lately, everybody only seemed to comment on how quickly Abby's hair was growing, but the lonely ghost saw more than just a girl with longer hair.

He delighted in the way her hobbies changed every week—she painted, she wrote and she occasionally danced, but her enthusiasm never lasted. Her fingers were uncertain, her adjectives were almost always mismatched and her body never seemed to twist in the right direction. Her hobbies always changed—all except for her love for books.

Abigail's emotions were insufferably fluctuant at home—she'd be manic, panicked and then suddenly hushed for no reason, but she entered nirvana after the bookshop's closing time. She would turn the open sign around, sit on the floor behind the counter, close her eyes, inhale the smell of old paper and finally leave about half an hour after closing. The silence that surrounded her was narcotic, despite the sound of heavy footsteps, high-spirited chatter and revving engines coming from outside that invaded the solace of the four-cornered bookshop.

Since she managed to evade the bus accident three months ago, there were no real threats to her life. The lonely ghost had honestly thought that her life was at risk with every breath she took, but he remembered that it was his paranoia that led to the decay of his own life. Before he could slip into another daydream and eventually lose his oneness and sense of self-worth, he brushed the thought off his shoulders and moved along.

Abigail's daily life was extremely repetitive—the lonely ghost had already memorized her routine by heart. She'd wake up at half past six, have breakfast downstairs, take a shower, get dressed, go to work, have lunch at noon, close the shop at five, stay till half past five, go home, read a book, read the news, and then...finally, she'd fall asleep. It was like reading the same chapter of the same old book over and over again, and yet the lonely ghost never got tired of watching her go on with her life.

There were times when Abby's life didn't seem to be in any danger, like when she was reading or taking a nap, so the lonely ghost would quietly slip into his mother's room and watch her. Martha's face seemed to glow as she aged every day and the lonely ghost took that as a sign that she was finally moving on. Her appointments with her psychiatrist continued, and Stephen Willis was a good one—of course, the lonely ghost attended one of their sessions just to see if his mother was receiving the treatment she deserved. She was, fortunately. Her doctor was soft-spoken and quick-witted, a paragon of those who practiced psychiatry.

The ghost was so close to becoming a licensed psychiatrist when his life was put to an abrupt end. He told himself that he wouldn't be the kind of doctor who only pretended to care—the type that puts on a caring, sympathetic mask whenever he needed to. He wanted to genuinely care, no matter how difficult it was. He wanted to watch them as they slowly grew back into their old, normal lives. Even though it was literally written all over his job description, he wanted to wholeheartedly do the best he could to help them regain what they've lost over time.

Now that he was a ghost, all he could do was watch everyone grow older.

It was around two in the morning, when the lonely ghost and Old Paul were the only unsleeping souls. The lonely ghost saw the frail, old ghost playing a game of cards in the lobby downstairs. The cards were clear through the old ghost's translucent skin, but surprisingly, he could still hold them. The ghost used to think that spirits couldn't affect the realm of the living and that the incident with the stack of books was merely coincidental, but Old Paul and his game of solitaire proved him wrong.