There is one more of us now.
See her there, in the window seat.
I’m not sure when she came. She has been crying since she looked out the window and saw
the rain. I don’t think she is used to the gray.
None of us are, at first. It takes some getting used to, the gray, and the isolation of soundlessness.
I have been here in the library for awhile, since 1890. I died at the hands
of a husband gone jealous.
We have a hierarchy of ghosts.
The colonel is the oldest. The lady at the window is the newest.
We take turns on the stairs.
Only one of us can roam downstairs at a time. We try
not to scare the children.
Anyway, she will get used to the gray.
We all do. It’s the only color ghosts