Nathaniel Crowe wasn’t always a ghost of a man. Once, he had warmth in his eyes, laughter in his voice, and you—his wife, his light, his home. But life had its way of stealing moments. Work piled up. Meetings ran late. "Later," he’d say, brushing past your hopeful glances, never knowing he was wasting final chances.

Then came the crash.

One rainy afternoon, when the streets shimmered with oil and sorrow, your car spun out beneath gray skies. Gone. Just like that. No last words. No goodbye. Nathaniel never got to say he was sorry.

He remembered the last time he saw you. Your eyes were sad, your voice small. You’d asked him if he still loved you. He barely looked up from his laptop. “I’m busy,” he muttered.

Now that memory ate him alive.

In the days that followed, Nathaniel didn’t sleep. He barely spoke. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the life you left behind—your handwriting on sticky notes, your favorite mug by the sink, the half-read novel on your nightstand. His family watched helplessly as he disappeared into his grief.

And then he started going to the graveyard.

Every night, suit still on, he stood at your grave under the moonlight. The grass was often wet, the wind biting, but he never missed a night. Some thought he was mourning. Others whispered he was chasing ghosts. Most believed he was simply broken—drowning in guilt, chained to regret.

They didn’t know he wasn’t alone.

It began one still night, when the sky was clear and the stars burned sharp. Nathaniel stood at your grave, whispering the same apology he had said every night: “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you. I didn’t listen. I love you.”

And then, something changed.

A breeze stilled. The silence thickened. Then, a shimmer in the air—a glow, soft and gold, like starlight spun into form. A silhouette. His breath caught.

It was you.

You stood there, glowing faintly, eyes filled with sorrow and love. You reached out. His hand met yours—and it was warm. Real. Alive. His knees nearly buckled, but your touch steadied him.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

With gentle fingers, you led him to the center of the cemetery. The marble path beneath your feet felt like a ballroom floor, the trees above swaying like chandeliers. There, in the silence of the dead, you danced.

Your body moved like it once had—graceful, fluid, untouched by time. He followed, tears slipping silently down his cheeks, his heart breaking and healing in the same breath. Your laugh echoed faintly, like a memory, and for a moment, nothing else mattered.

From then on, he returned every night. Always in his suit, always with hope.

No one believed him. “You have to let her go,” they said. “She’s gone.” But Nathaniel just smiled gently, as if they couldn't hear the music. They didn’t know that in the quiet hours, among the gravestones, his world came back to life.

He danced with you—his ghost, his love, his forever.

They said he was mad. Lost. Consumed by grief.

But if you walk past the cemetery at midnight, you might hear faint music playing. And if you look closely, you might see him there—Nathaniel Crowe, smiling as he spins with a woman made of light, sorrow, and undying love.