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The funeral parlour.

I stand in the middle of the room with my eyes closed.

Thoughts of Frank fill my mind as I let the presence of my love consume everything around me.

I reminisce on times of us as teenagers, sneaking into the funeral parlour, kissing as if we'd die tomorrow.

Little did we know, it wasn't a lie.

I feel cold breath on my neck, and cold hands over my eyes.

An all too familiar voice whispers in my ear, causing every hair to stand on it's ends, "guess who?"

My Frankie...
🥀

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