So much sadness in one life. So much suffering. Shutters drawn so tight the houseplants wither. It’s always cold here, like there is one ever-circling draft that keeps an icy chill alive. Gold has withered to yellow.

But still something holds.

An amorphous apparition that huddles by the empty fireplace for hours, before sinking into the floor.

Every night I see it, but the young nurse never listens to me. The second she turns on the light, it’s gone. And she always turns on the light.

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Sometimes I think I hear it moan. I think I smell tears. Honestly, I’m afraid to get too close.

The old woman hasn’t been down here in years. In the daytime, I sleep on her chest. At night, I watch the ghost.

Tonight, as I sit in the kitchen, eyes on the fireplace, I hear an unusual sound.

Mother.

“John?” she whispers. When I see her, the spirit is just before her, and she’s following it to the fireplace. My tail starts wagging nervously, but I’m afraid to make a sound. The nurse doesn’t like when I speak up.

As the two kneel at the fireplace, I hear a piercing wail coming from them, coming from her, and I start barking, I can’t help it, and then I can’t stop.

By the time the nurse arrives it’s too late.

But I’ve never seen the ghost again.