***ONE SMALL FACT***
Ghosts, contrary to belief, exist.
They are everywhere.
Writers are just the ones who see and name them.
"I suppose we're all ghosts when you really think about it," he said. "We become something different, never again who we were during this exact moment...just ghosts of our old self."
She wrinkled her brow, looking around at the golden November light falling on the crisp winter ground, melancholy and sweet all at once. Quiet surrounded them, and for a moment, she could see all the faces passing through the years who had come and gone, who had walked that very path stretching before them and stood in the very sun they now sat in...nothing had changed. And yet nothing was the same. She, too, would leave with no visible mark that she had ever been here. A slight shiver of wistfulness ran through her.
She looked at him. "What about when we leave places and people - when we move on to different ones?"
"I think all they remember is how we were then - who we were in that exact place during our time with them. All they have of us are memories..." he finished softly. "Ghosts."