A Ghost Story(2017)1 Р”рѕсѓс‚сѓрїрѕрё С‚рёс‚р»рѕрірё (2027)

The white linen was no longer a bedsheet; it was a weight. Underneath it, C did not feel like a man, but like the memory of a smell—old cedar, floor wax, and the faint, metallic tang of a piano string.

He watched M leave. He watched a new family move in, their laughter like glass shards in his quiet space. He lashed out, shattering plates to reclaim the silence, but they only replaced the porcelain and kept laughing.

He didn't die; ghosts don't have that luxury. Instead, he fell back into the beginning. The white linen was no longer a bedsheet; it was a weight

He waited. He endured the loop until the house was empty once more. With a spectral fingernail, he picked at the paint, chipping away decades of grime until he reached the slip of paper. He pulled it out and read the words he had written to her when he was whole.

Centuries collapsed. The house was torn down. He stood in the footprint of his bedroom while a skyscraper rose around him, cold and steel-eyed. He climbed to the roof and looked at a city that had forgotten the dirt it was built on. Then, he jumped. He watched a new family move in, their

Time began to lose its edges. It didn't flow; it sedimented.

The sheet collapsed. There was no one under it. The note fluttered to the floor, and the house was finally, truly, empty. Instead, he fell back into the beginning

He looked out the window at the house next door. Another figure stood there, draped in a floral-patterned sheet."I’m waiting for someone," the floral ghost signaled through the glass."Who?" C thought."I don't remember," the neighbor replied.