When I look out the window each night, there are no ghosts. At least this is what I tell myself after weeks with little sleep. I came to this old house for respite, but it has become an ineffectual beau, wrapping around me yet offering little comfort. The eaves groan with the slightest breeze, the walls sweat, and moths flit against the windows. I toss and turn in bed until my hand inevitably grazes the empty space to my left; then the heat of loss builds in my chest. My son snores down the hallway all the while, his staccato breath a forceful shove each time my eyes flutter closed. Even then, shapes flicker across the moonlit curtains, the work of flying creatures in the night. So I perch at the end of my bed and peer into a world of ink and shadow.
