"Not the same," Julian muttered, pushing open the heavy glass door of the Emporium.
The neon sign above Miller’s Liquor Emporium buzzed with a low, rhythmic hum that matched the nervous tapping of Julian’s fingers on the steering wheel. It was 11:45 PM on a Tuesday, and he was on a desperate, late-night quest for a ghost. Specifically, a liquid ghost. Bacardi Torched Cherry Rum.
The next afternoon, Julian stood on his grandfather's porch, holding a glass filled with ice, cola, and a generous pour of the rare rum. Captain Ben took a long sip, his weathered face breaking into a wide, bright grin.
"Found it hiding in the back corner of the stockroom," the man said, setting it on the counter with a satisfying thunk . "Must have been sitting there for years. Last one in the store. Heck, maybe the last one in the city."