The whispers curled around his ears, like ivy around a tree trunk. They clung there, tightening in ever-increasing desperation, whispering non-stop, persuading. Even the rabid north wind couldn’t dissuade them, cool them, freeze the words on their lips, though it chilled Robert to the bone. 

Living with ghosts. Don’t we all? Yet for some, they writhe more than others. He was born to them, for the last of his family gave her life to secure his. Didn’t she? Ghosts surrounded him from then on. Some were welcoming visitors. Others less so. No one saw them but Robert. No one heard them, nor him. 

He realised the whispers were his own when the mirror failed to mist. It was bitter that day, and all those beyond the window exhaled ghosts. Robert, however, had no ghost to exhale, no spectre to coddle, no banshee at which to scream. He was merely a whitening shadow, who whispered to the stars and the moon. 

He’d never been a baby. Not to his memory, anyway. Neither had he been a child, nor lover, nor husband, nor parent, nor endlessly aging old man. But he was, and that was something. Wasn’t he? He told himself this as the whispers became louder and his family, at last, said, Hello.

An End.

Thank you for reading

Richard