Ghost Story

         After death, time is a concept that ceases to exist. Now is then, then is now, tomorrow is already here, and change is something that you can only witness and no longer experience. I was a good man, but there's no heaven like I was taught in life, but this life-after-death is definitely hell—except it's nothing like what I was taught in life either.

         I'm trapped. I lived my life being generous, forgiving, thoughtful, and kind to everyone, and now I'm trapped in this timeless realm. I watch the world and its people evolve and change over years and years, and at first it was fascinating, but now it's old—whatever "old" is.

         I watched my wife mourn my death for what seemed like an eternity, but I know it was only about five years, since I died on June 20, 1975, and she died the day after she turned seventy-eight on June 16, 1980. I waited, and I'm still waiting—whatever "waiting" means—for her to meet me here, but it's been fifty-two years and I'm still alone.

         I've roamed the earth trying to find a woman like her that could unknowingly keep me company, that I could attempt to touch from this separate realm, that I could love and cherish and hope would fall into this domain of nothingness with me once she passes away—but I've had no luck. No one can replace my Karissa, and time—whatever "time" is—does not in fact heal the soul—change does, and change does not exist here.