He didn't die; ghosts don't have that luxury. Instead, he fell back into the beginning.
The sheet collapsed. There was no one under it. The note fluttered to the floor, and the house was finally, truly, empty.
Time began to lose its edges. It didn't flow; it sedimented.
He looked out the window at the house next door. Another figure stood there, draped in a floral-patterned sheet."I’m waiting for someone," the floral ghost signaled through the glass."Who?" C thought."I don't remember," the neighbor replied.
He waited. He endured the loop until the house was empty once more. With a spectral fingernail, he picked at the paint, chipping away decades of grime until he reached the slip of paper. He pulled it out and read the words he had written to her when he was whole.
He stood in the corner of the living room, watching M eat a chocolate pie. She ate it with a focused, brutal grief, scraping the tin until the sound set his non-existent teeth on edge. He wanted to reach out, to tell her that the house wasn't empty, but his hands were only folds of fabric. When he moved, the world didn't ripple; he was the ripple.
He saw himself—living, breathing, stubborn—moving into the house with M. He saw the moment he had tucked a small scrap of paper into a crack in the doorframe, a secret note she would never find.
