UNLIVING STILL

Sometimes he sits at the place where she fell and waits for the shadows to come and whisper hollow bittersweet nothings into his ear.

Not on the floor. Not usually. He sits by the cold fireplace on a regular armchair opposite the one she favored, with a bottle in his hand.

“It's life, kid,” he used to say, “no one gets out of it alive.”

But now he's stuck. Not dead. Well, not more than usual. Stuck. In the shadows. With a bottle going up and down at way too regular intervals.

People – the ones brave or stupid enough to still visit – keep #entreating him to sell the house. Find a new place. A change of scenery will do him good. They think other people shouldn't live in haunted houses. Not that they're bold enough to say it out loud when he asks them why on earth should he do that?

He's not going anywhere.

There's nothing wrong with the house. 

The only haunted thing there is his heart.

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77.1 #vss365 #microfiction