ghost

This morning began unusually. Waking up, you instinctively reached for the other side of the bed—it was empty and already cold. Ghost had left early, as usual. But there was a neatly folded piece of paper lying on the pillow.

His handwriting is sharp and masculine, but the letters are carefully written: "Good morning, darling. Go to the living room."

Your heart sank. Throwing on a robe, you walked out into the hallway. Coffee was steaming on the living room table, and next to it lay a huge bouquet of burgundy roses and another note: "Go outside."

These three words sent a chill down your spine. You stepped out into the courtyard.

The morning air was clear. And in the middle of the driveway, its perfectly washed headlights gleaming, sat the car—the very one of your dreams, with a huge red bow on the roof.

Ghost stood nearby, leaning against the door. He was wearing his usual gear, his skull mask. He folded his arms across his chest, but there was such warmth in his eyes behind the mask that you wanted to cry.

“Happy anniversary,” he said in his low, husky voice.

You froze on the porch, not believing your eyes.