Like a Thousand Times Before

This is the night

Ghosts haunt that street.

It's winding. And steep. Filled with vines. Places to hide.

Ghosts love that.

I walked there a thousand times. I think it was a thousand years ago, but it can't be. There were streets there. And houses.

And her.

There was her.

The winds blew through the trees back then. And the ghosts softly sang along. With the winds.

The sun was bright there. And hot.

But there was always a breeze.

The ghosts didn't care. They don't feel heat. Just cold.

And in the darkness, their cold would come up through the ground, in through the floorboards.

She knew they were there. But she didn't care.

Except when she couldn't sleep. Which was often.

The ghosts would move through picture window. Sliding through the slow-moving liquid of the glass.

They whispered as she slept. And she listened.

And they whispered when I was there. But I didn't listen.

Until she became one of them.

Cold. Lurking. Whispering.

Through the winding streets. And the houses. And the breeze.