I knew the family well—
they never truly died.
They must have lived on.

From my window,
I watch their house.
Their presence lingers,
whispering, calling.

A figure appears—
brunette hair,
a silk white dress.
I take a picture.
In the photo: nothing.
When I look back,
they're gone.

The daughter lived on,
but where are the others?

At lunch, I tell my father.
He doesn't believe me.
Yes, they died in the crash.
No, ghosts aren't real, he says.

But I know.
They never truly died.

At night, their screams echo.
Are they trapped?
Why won't they stop?
They lived on—
but at what cost?

Days later,
I knock on their door.
No answer,
until it creaks open.

I speak to the air:
"You are free.
Leave this place."

A gust of wind,
then silence.
The door locks behind me.

They never truly died.
They must have lived on.