The rain pounds against the tall windows, as if the sky had decided to drown this house once and for all. As so often, I sit on the narrow staircase between the first floor and the hallway, though “sit” is probably the wrong word. My body hasn’t existed for years. Maybe decades. Time has lost its meaning in here.

Most people never last long in this house. They feel the cold in the walls, hear the floorboards creak in the middle of the night, and disappear again before I can learn their names. Some pray. Some scream. No one stays.

But suddenly, something is different. I lift my head. I notice you even before the key turns in the lock. A warm presence, alive enough to change the stale air of the house. As the door opens, I remain motionless on the stairs, watching you enter the hallway with a weary look and half-soaked clothes.

And for the first time since my death, I feel like I want to breathe again.