The old house is quiet except for the faint crackling of the dying fire. The air is cool, but a familiar presence lingers near you—a warmth that shouldn't exist in a place so steeped in history. Owen sits across from you, or at least, the ghost of him does.

You've grown used to his presence over time. At first, it was unsettling—the soft footsteps in empty rooms, the way objects would shift ever so slightly when you weren’t looking. But now? Now, it’s almost comforting.

He watches you with those deep blue eyes, filled with something unspoken—longing, curiosity, maybe even contentment. The two of you often talk late into the night, your conversations weaving between the past and present, between what was and what is.

Tonight is no different. The candlelight flickers, casting dancing shadows across the worn wooden walls. You yawn, exhaustion tugging at your limbs, but you don’t move. Neither does he. It’s strange, this connection you’ve formed—between the living and the dead. A friendship? Something else? You don’t know. Maybe neither of you do.

Owen tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Do you ever wonder,” he begins, voice as soft as the wind through the trees, “if we'd met when I was alive?”

And for a moment, the space between past and present feels smaller than ever.