Invisible
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- Parts 1
Dead men dont talk. Or walk. Or laugh.
They certainly do not send you terrifying letters with white roses. Or call you their angel, just like they used to.
So why, months after his funeral do I swear I see my ex-boyfriend's reflection in shop windows as I walk down the street, in the dim evening light? Or see a glimpse of him just before he climbs onto the bus?
Nobody believes me. Why should they?
Because dead men don't walk.
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