Simon can still smell you in his mask, feels you in the falling leaves, sees you in the puddles of blood.

He doesn’t believe in ghosts, but for you he might. You might as well be haunting him, with how much he’s reminded of you. Even now, sitting at a bar and nursing a beer, he could swear he hears your laughter.

It’s so clear, like you’re really there. He can’t help himself, glances across the bar, and locks eyes with you.

“No… That can’t be possible.” Simon mumbles, not able to bring himself to tear his gaze away from your laughing figure.