Page 5 of Gone for the Ghost
“Oh,” she says, reading my revision with the kind of excitement that makes even mundane craft discussions feel significant.“Oh, that’smuchbetter.He’s showing his feelings instead of announcing them.”
“Precisely.Trust your reader to understand nuance.”
“You’re really good at this,” she says, saving the document with obvious satisfaction.“Have you always been interested in writing?”
The question touches on territory I’m not prepared to explore.What was I interested in, during my lifetime?What did I do with my days before they became an endless repetition of haunting empty rooms?
“I was… educated,” I say finally.“Well-read.These are simply basic principles of narrative construction.”
“Basic principles,” she repeats, and something in her tone suggests she doesn’t entirely believe my deflection.“Right.”
As the days pass, I find myself genuinely invested in her progress.Her writing improves dramatically under my tutelage, but more than that, she approaches each session with the kind of enthusiasm that makes even mundane craft discussions feel like genuine collaboration.
“You’re a good teacher,” she tells me one evening as we finish working on a particularly challenging scene.“Patient, but honest.I’ve never had feedback that made me want to work harder instead of just giving up.”
The compliment creates an unexpected warmth in whatever I’m using for a chest these days.It’s been so long since anyone valued my opinion, sought my guidance, treated my thoughts as worth considering rather than simply enduring.
“You’re a dedicated student,” I reply, though the words feel inadequate.“Most people resist criticism, even when it’s constructive.”
“Maybe because most people don’t receive it from someone who actually cares about making the work better,” she says, and something in her tone suggests she’s not just talking about writing technique.
The observation settles between us with weight I’m not prepared to examine.Do I care about making her work better?When did her success become something I actively want to protect and encourage?
“Your coffee grows cold while you work,” I say, changing the subject to safer territory.“Perhaps you should consider a thermal mug.”
She smiles, recognizing the deflection but allowing it.“I’ll add it to my shopping list.”
“And perhaps,” I add, surprising myself with the admission, “you might consider reducing the sugar content.The current ratio is alarming.”
“Are you critiquing my coffee now, too?”There’s laughter in her voice.
“I’m simply observing that proper nutrition supports cognitive function,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster.“If you’re going to work at my desk, you might as well optimize your performance.”
“Your desk?”
“Our desk,” I correct and then pause, startled by the admission.When did I start thinking of the space as shared rather than temporarily occupied?
That night, as I watch her pack away her laptop and prepare for bed, I realize something has shifted in my understanding of our arrangement.She’s no longer simply a disruption to my carefully ordered existence.She’s become a presence I anticipate, a voice I look forward to hearing, a mind I enjoy engaging with about subjects that matter.
The realization should disturb me.Instead, as she hums softly while tidying up her workspace—a habit I’ve grown oddly fond of despite my initial irritation—I find myself wondering when exactly I stopped wanting her to leave and started hoping she might stay.
The thought is deeply unsettling, and I retreat to my preferred corner by the window to contemplate the uncomfortable possibility that my years of relative solitude might have left me less prepared for human companionship than I’d assumed.
But watching her move through the apartment with the kind of comfortable familiarity that suggests she belongs here, I can’t quite bring myself to regret the cosmic joke that’s made me permanently visible to the most optimistic woman in Maplewood Grove.
Even if she does put far too much sugar in her coffee and insists on humming show tunes while she works.
Chapter 3
Lily
LivingwithJulianislike having the world’s most sarcastic writing coach who happens to be translucent and has opinions about everything from my coffee choices to my character development techniques.
“Your heroine’s internal monologue reads like she’s narrating her own life for an audience of particularly dense children,” he announces from his preferred spot by the window, where he can simultaneously judge my writing and critique my housekeeping skills.“Show me her thoughts through action and dialogue, not through paragraphs of self-aware exposition.”
I pause mid-sentence, my fingers hovering over the keyboard as I consider his point.Ava has been doing a lot of thinking about her feelings lately—pages and pages of introspective rambling that felt deep when I was writing it but now sounds exactly like what Julian described.
“She’s processing complex emotions,” I defend, though even as I say it, I hear the weakness in my argument.
