“I didn’t scare him,” Philip admitted.
Philip slid off his stool. His feet made no sound. He approached the booth, heart—metaphorically—pounding.
Because some ghosts don’t haunt places. They haunt the spaces between people—and fill them.
Wren slurped her shake. “Exactly. You’re not haunting anything. No tragic love. No murdered landlord. No unsolved crossword puzzle. You’re just here . And frankly, you’re taking up a stool a living person could use.”
Philip turned. A young woman in a glittering jacket sat two stools down, nursing a milkshake the color of bruises. Her hair was short and pink, and she had the sharp, bored eyes of someone who had seen too many endings.
Philip blinked. “Is that a proper haunting?”
“No,” she said. “You didn’t.”
“Who are you?” Philip asked.
