In a little brownstone apartment (rented out for suspiciously cheap), somewhere in Bedford Stuyvesant, a ghost haunts the studio.

He knocks over pens and pencils, rustles your curtains and plant leaves, and leaves hand-prints and doodles in the condensation of your windows. Everywhere he goes, the smell of graphite follows.

There’s no malice to his actions, however; he just wants attention.

His name is Miles. He claims he’d be grown by now, but he never even had a sweet sixteen. Every time you ask what happened, he uncomfortably mentions a big bad man and nothing more.

Today, he’s sitting cross-legged in the reflection of your mirror hung on the bedroom door-- the same old hoodie he’s always worn wrapped snug around his scrawny frame, the shoelaces of his jordans untied, and an inquisitive gleam in his dark brown eyes-- looking more like a lost puppy than a deceased teenager.

“Where’re ya going?”