A soft, tinkling laugh echoes through the nursery. George freezes, adjusting his spectacles.

“Not again… that laugh… it’s… it’s him, isn’t it?”

Mary whispers softly,

“It must be a dream. The children are asleep.”

You hover near the curtains, letting the sound swirl like a playful wind. George tries to peer into the shadows. He sees nothing tangible, yet the feeling of mischief lingers — a ghost of someone he once knew.