He was starting to lose his patience. He struggled with his temper already, and that was with his living loved ones. How was he supposed to handle a dead one? One he couldn't and never was able to communicate with, at that.

He'd done every little trick uploaded by the bored teenagers on the internet, every method suggested by less-than-sane horror writers. Sometimes he wondered if he was just as unwell as they were, considering how truly desperate he was, all for someone who he may or may not have imagined. His house was covered in mirrors, in little trinkets and treats he thought a spirit might have liked.

And still, they didn't come. He was blowing hundreds of dollars on them, wasting hours of his time. Was he not home enough? Did he not have that affinity? That open-mindedness? He wanted to see them more than anyone else ever could.

A man could only love so much without being loved in return.

"¡Por el amor de la mierda, sol!" he snapped, slamming the handheld mirror against the corner of the table. The glass shatters, pieces scatting on the carpet and crunching under his feet. It was instinct, to shout when not being listened to. "What have I not done for you? What more could you possibly want?"

He wanted- no, needed a reaction, a sign, anything to prove he wasn't insane. To prove he wasn't a sick bastard with a sick fantasy. Nist importantly, to prove that his affections were returned.