The Ambiguous Ghost

The ghost is not fully formed. The possibility of it is there.

I sense it before I see anything. Not a presence exactly. More of a shift. The room feels slightly less empty than it should. The light holds longer in the corners. The air pauses, as if waiting to be noticed.

When I look, there is only the faintest outline. Just enough to suggest shape. Just enough to invite interpretation. As it begins to form, it disappears.

In its place are markings. Pale, tentative. Something new is trying to write itself over what already exists. Some lines repeat themselves without effort. Others attempt to bend away, to make a different curve, but habit presses them back into their familiar shape. The old pattern knows this space well.

The ghost never fully enters the room. It lingers near the door, slipping behind it the moment I focus too closely. Not hiding. Waiting. Familiar with the threshold. Familiar with me.

It wants to touch me briefly, not to claim, not to stay, only to soothe itself. As if contact alone might settle whatever keeps it unfinished. On me, the palest burn would remain. The faintest scar. Almost invisible. The kind carried without remark.

Later, alone, I would come to know it as the mark of almost.

I understand the exchange it is offering. Comfort for consequence. Familiarity with a trace, I would learn to live around.

I do not step closer.

I close the door before the body has time to decide.

The door closes. The sound is small but final.

The room returns to itself. Not emptier. Clearer. The air moves again without hesitation. Light rests where it should. Nothing waits at the threshold.

She makes tea. The familiar motions steady her hands. The kettle clicks off. Steam rises and disappears. She sits with the cup warming her palms, the ordinary comfort of it enough.

This room has learned her shape, and she has learned how to live well inside it. Comfortably. Happily. She knows now what she will allow to cross the threshold.

Only solid forms enter. Those who can sit with her. Those who can stay. Those who can lift a cup and share the quiet without asking for anything that leaves a mark.

The mark of almost remains, faint and unobtrusive. A reminder, not a wound. It does not pull her toward the door. It simply tells her she chose.

The tea cools. The room holds.
And nothing ambiguous lingers.