How the hell is anyone supposed to find common ground with a ghost? It's not like we can bond over coffee or trade stories about our childhoods. Well, technically we could, but only one of us would be drinking the coffee, though neither of us are accumulating childhood stories anymore.
The ghost hovers nearby. It seems less manic than usual.
"Dead as a naaaail, dead as a door," it sings, suddenly spinning in chaotic circles around me. "Dead as the dreams on a cold stone floor!"
Never mind.
It's clearly obsessed with death, which I guess makes sense. Being dead occupies a lot of your time when you're a ghost.
Maybe I should stop dancing around it.
If I had unfinished business keeping me tied to the mortal world, I'd probably want someone to just fucking ask me about it.
"How long have you been dead?" I ask, trying to sound calm and unaffected by its antics.
The ghost stops its mad spinning. For a second, everything goes quiet—even the wind seems to hold its breath.
