Whispers In The Wind

I watch, from the hall, though I no longer cast a shadow.

The floorboards do not creak beneath me now. I move through the house like a thought, drifting from room to room. I long for my voice to be heard, for him to hear me.

I spend my days trying to call to him, hoping he will hear my voice whispering in the breeze, but it's no use. The dead have no voice.

The house holds onto me. It keeps me here for reasons I still can’t name, but I watch and I wait.

She has taken my place. He holds her how he once held me, gentle, loving, unaware of the secrets she keeps.

She laughs, that same soft laugh she used the night she pushed me.

The night she brought me to my death; the night she stole my life.

A rush of cold water still clings to me, a final memory that won’t fade.

He doesn’t realise his new love is the reason his true love is gone.

I spend my days following him, hoping one day he might feel me in the air or in the shift of a curtain. I touch his face, hoping he will remember the shape of my presence. But grief blinds deeply.

I think she senses me sometimes. It's in the way her eyes dart to corners, how she shivers as I enter a room.

Tonight, she stands in my mirror, brushing her hair as I once did. He sits downstairs, humming softly, unaware of the ghost in his house and the monster in his bed.

I creep forward and a floorboard creaks, her eyes shift up to the glass, her gaze meets mine. I’m just as surprised.

She knows I am here.

Unlike him, she can feel me.

And I understand now.  I am not here for him.

I’m here for her.