Listen:
Her name was Melanie Moor, down on Sycamore Lane. Her stride as gallant as a nymph through a forest, bathed in the soft afternoon sunlight.
She walked down her driveway and off down the road. She had a bag on her shoulder. It looked like an antique messenger bag. I glanced above her, up to the trees. They started to sway with the calm fall breeze, sailing her aroma down the street and surrounding me with it. It was wonderful.
I got up from the swing on the porch and started down the road, slowly walking up towards her. She didn’t hear me coming, but the breeze picked up as I approached her. I stepped quietly. I was a romantic ninja, sneaking up behind her and softly touching her on the back. She swung around to see me.
She looked scared. She had nobody there with her. Then, a tear, stormy and sullen, dripped down from her fair gaze. It struck the ground before my feet. I think she missed somebody. Her boyfriend died 4 days ago. Then I too shed a tear. I didn’t have anybody either. I was just a ghost.