One Sunday mornin' after church, the preachers were shakin' hands you walked up and pulled on their sleeves, asking to talk.

They would nod, kneeling down to you.

You said, "My mama's boyfriend don't like me much. Especially after a couple of beers... Sometimes, when he hits me, I wish that place you always talk about was real with all my might. "

"Is heaven real?" You'd ask finally, eyes sad.

"My little angel..." Ghost would whisper, pulling your small body into his much larger one.