These ghosts he carries around with him, throughout his days. These little scenes, their details resonating, causing his pulse to tremble ever so slightly for moments at a time...
A boy in a red cardigan, sitting on an empty beach, reading. Wrapped up warm in a scarf, but with his shoes kicked off and a band-aid across his left foot.
The girl with the two suitcases, hopping off her train, embarrassed because she's been crying. Looking around for someone who isn't there. Her pocket stuffed with the letter she wrote on the way, but has yet to decide whether or not she will send. Her silver nail polish flaking badly.
The woman standing in her new empty bedroom, surrounded by unopened boxes, placing a vase on the windowsill. Standing there with a fruit salad, testing how her new sandals feel on the hardwood floors, letting the light dance upon her spoon.
The man sitting in a sun-soaked cafe in some a foreign city, his ten-year-old son beside him, the boy's arm draped over his sturdy shoulders. Just sitting together, breathing in unison. Waiting for the waitress, waiting also for the women to return from their shopping.
Where, he wonders, do such fleeting, pulsing images come from? Why do they haunt his soul?
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