or
No Ghost

One night, as I lay very still in bed, my arm reached upward. There, in the air, my open hand touched a ghost. I knew it was a ghost for its presence was warm and electrified my skin.

I told it, “Ghost, I want you to do something for me. Take all the love I have for Huey out from my heart—I know you can do such things, ghost. Gather my love and make tiny parcels of it. Bundle those parcels and bring them to Huey and place them in her heart. The parcels must be very small and remain hidden to her. She must not know of them—is that clear, ghost? Is that clear? Watch over the parcels and protect them. Guard them closely for you are waiting on a moment. If ever Huey does not love herself, pull on the parcel strings. If ever Huey finds herself dejected, open the parcels so that love may flow through her heart. Open them, ghost, one by one, so that she may always have love in her, so that she may always follow her dreams and live happily. Ghost, that is your task.”

The ghost waited some time then nodded.
“I can do that, but you will never see me again.”
“That is alright, ghost. I do not mind.”
“Very well.”

And so the ghost took all the love from my heart, as ghosts can do. It made the bundles, and I watched over it to ensure the work was good. When the ghost had left, I lowered my hand, which clasped my body—I could tell when it had left because the coldness came back and my skin was no longer electrified. It grew so cold around me that I saw the breath escape from my mouth like vapour from an exhausted steam engine. I saw it there, in the cold, beneath my bedcovers. Yet breath is no ghost. No, breath is no ghost.