There's a ghost in my house. I hear her singing. A little girl. Why is it always a little girl? The light through the window is barely enough to see by, but the sky outside is very pale. Clouds slide by, fast and smooth as water down a drain. She's there, sitting on the edge of my bed, reading a book. She looks so real that somehow I can't be scared. She looks so peaceful that I can't bring myself to disturb her—to speak up and ask her what she wants. I watch her, quietly, from the landing, until my eyes water. Eventually, I can't focus anymore and I have to blink, and in that instant she and