I sank my spade into the garden and hit something that wasn’t stone. It proved to be a small wooden box, inside of which were a few stoppered glass vials, containing a variety of substances, and a flat leather sleeve that held a few papers. I looked through them.

There were some diagrams and a page of manuscript, titled How to be invisible. I read it.

I thought about how people seemed to constantly walk the lane in front of the cottage, perpetually intent on grabbing my attention, when all I wanted was to be left in peace.

I compared the spell’s material components to the contents of the box. Everything was there, and giving no thought to why the box might have been buried, I magicked.

From that day to this, no living person has ever acknowledged me. We insubstantials, victims of the curse, barely aware of each other, stand perpetually in the front garden, listening to the wind blow through the wallflowers. The new owner of the cottage does not sense our presence… but he will in time.