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I comb through my raven black hair, tightening my tie in the mirror.

I sigh sadly, looking over at the deep red rose on my bedside table.

Red pen marking the date of my beloveds death on the calendar, October 31st.

I hear the church chiming twelve as Mikey bursts into my room.

"It's time." We say softly, in unison, our eyes both glazed over with nostalgia.

🥀

The Ghost Of You [frerard short story]Where stories live. Discover now