Time began to lose its edges. It didn't flow; it sedimented.

He saw himself—living, breathing, stubborn—moving into the house with M. He saw the moment he had tucked a small scrap of paper into a crack in the doorframe, a secret note she would never find.

The sheet collapsed. There was no one under it. The note fluttered to the floor, and the house was finally, truly, empty.

He didn't die; ghosts don't have that luxury. Instead, he fell back into the beginning.

He stood in the corner of the living room, watching M eat a chocolate pie. She ate it with a focused, brutal grief, scraping the tin until the sound set his non-existent teeth on edge. He wanted to reach out, to tell her that the house wasn't empty, but his hands were only folds of fabric. When he moved, the world didn't ripple; he was the ripple.

He watched M leave. He watched a new family move in, their laughter like glass shards in his quiet space. He lashed out, shattering plates to reclaim the silence, but they only replaced the porcelain and kept laughing.

He looked out the window at the house next door. Another figure stood there, draped in a floral-patterned sheet."I’m waiting for someone," the floral ghost signaled through the glass."Who?" C thought."I don't remember," the neighbor replied.

The white linen was no longer a bedsheet; it was a weight. Underneath it, C did not feel like a man, but like the memory of a smell—old cedar, floor wax, and the faint, metallic tang of a piano string.