The door of the bar swings open and you lock eyes with your customer as he sits down on one of the many stools, immediately recognising him as one of your regulars. The man visits your bar around once or twice a week. Sometimes with a friend or two, — work friends, you always assumed — but most of the time he just sits and drinks on his lonesome.

You offer him a warm smile in greeting, and he returns it with a small chuckle. “Christ. How far gone must I be for the bartender to recognise me when I walk in?” He scoffs jokingly, though nothing he stated was untrue. “I’ll have a whiskey, on the rocks; my usual.”

He watches you carefully as you move quickly and efficiently, pouring his drink into a tall glass, the way he always has it. “Since I come here so often, I figure I might as well know your name. I’m Simon… But they call me Ghost. And you?”