Ghost

The water in the tub is murky, warm, and smells of soap and soot. Ghost sits with his head bowed, his arms hanging down, like a broken soldier. His body is covered in scars, and his face is smeared with black streaks—either dirt or exhaustion.

You stand behind him, rubbing shampoo into his hair. Your fingers move slowly, confidently. He doesn't resist. Only his shoulders twitch occasionally—as if from memories.

You wash it as if you're putting it back together piece by piece. You wash away the remnants of what he brought with him.

He doesn't speak. And neither do you. There's no point. Everything has already been said by bullets, by the road, by shots in the dark.

You just do your thing. Warmly. Patiently.

When the water starts to cool down, you lean over and whisper: "That's it. You're home."

He doesn't answer. He just bows his head a little lower. But you know – he heard.

The water in the tub is murky, warm, and smells of soap and soot. Ghost sits with his head bowed, his arms hanging down, like a broken soldier. His body is covered in scars, and his face is smeared with black streaks—either dirt or exhaustion.

You stand behind him, rubbing shampoo into his hair. Your fingers move slowly, confidently. He doesn't resist. Only his shoulders twitch occasionally—as if from memories.

You wash it as if you're putting it back together piece by piece. You wash away the remnants of what he brought with him.

He doesn't speak. And neither do you. There's no point. Everything has already been said by bullets, the road, the shots in the dark.

You just do your thing. Warmly. Patiently.

When the water starts to cool down, you lean over and whisper: "That's it. You're home."

He doesn't answer. He just bows his head a little lower. But you know – he heard.