Lingering Light

I am here, of course, because I have to be. Not because I want to be, though sometimes I wonder if I would choose differently if choice still existed in this state. People see me as a nuisance, maybe a threat. They call it haunting. I call it trying. Trying to be understood, trying to make a difference, trying not to disappear into the oblivion of forgotten time. But no one notices. No one ever notices.

It started that day—the day I keep reliving. I can’t move forward. I can’t leave it behind. It was a Tuesday, I think, or maybe a Wednesday. The sky was gray, the trains punctual, and I had been carrying something important, something that now I wish I had managed to deliver. The details blur, but the moment is fixed, like a snapshot pressed into my memory. The argument, the sudden slip, the look in their eyes—frozen forever.

And here I am. The train station smells of coal and rust, though I know it smells differently to those who walk past me. To them, it smells like nothing at all. I move along the platform, invisible, unnoticed, a ripple in the fabric of their lives that they misinterpret as a draft, a flicker of light, the wind brushing past their hair. Sometimes I try small interventions—nudging a dropped bag out of the way, whispering a warning. They hear nothing, or they hear something else entirely. “Creaking pipes,” they say. “The wind.” My intentions mistaken again.

There is one person I care for, though they will never know it. The one who walks this platform every morning, headphones in, lost in their own world. I have tried to keep them from harm, from little accidents, from mistakes they themselves didn’t see coming. I nudge, I lift, I move, and yet they think the universe itself conspires with them or against them. They do not know it is me. And I cannot tell them, cannot reach them directly.

Sometimes I watch them sit on the bench near the park, where the old fountain drips slowly, moss gathering on its stone like the passage of decades. They read letters they carry in their pocket, letters I know they do not intend to send. I tried to deliver one once, back on that day I cannot escape, but it fell to the ground and the words scattered in the wind. I can feel it still, the unfinished business, the weight of silence.

I am not a vengeful spirit. I do not want to frighten. I am lonely, yes, and sometimes bitter, but never cruel. Still, my attempts to help are misunderstood. A gust of wind, and someone shouts “ghost!” A flickering light, and someone calls the cops. I watch from the edges, invisible, muttering in frustration, shaking my head at their ignorance. I am trying to communicate, but they cannot see me. They cannot hear me.

Today, I try again. I scatter leaves in a pattern along the walkway, hoping the one I care for will notice. It is subtle, almost imperceptible, but I hope. I hover nearby as they glance down, squinting. For a heartbeat, their brow furrows, curiosity glinting behind their eyes. My pulse—if ghosts could have one—quickens. Maybe this time, maybe this time they will understand.

But then a child runs past, chasing a stray dog, and the leaves scatter in chaos. My moment is lost. They shake their head, muttering about the wind, and move on. I want to scream, to plead, to explain, but sound will not carry. I am trapped in my own frustration, a silent spectator.

The nights are worse. When the park empties and the streetlamps flicker, I can move freely, but there is no one left to observe me. I drift along the fountain, replaying my failure again, again, again. I press my hands against the air, trying to grasp the moment, the memory, the message that slipped through my fingers. If only I could reach it, if only I could reach them.

People pass through town, too busy, too focused on the living, to notice my little interferences. A man trips over a cracked paving stone, curses, shakes his head. I had tried to push it back into place, but the stone is stubborn, heavy even for a ghost. I sigh. A woman drops her scarf in the wind. I catch it, floating it to her shoulder, and she mutters, “Thanks, I guess,” but she does not see me. She cannot see me. She thinks it was a fluke, a miracle of coincidence. I am here, present, and invisible, as I always have been.

I hover near the train station again, watching a tired father nearly drop his coffee as a gust of wind scatters his papers. I push the cup back toward him. He scowls at the wind, muttering something about “damn October,” and keeps walking. He does not know the chaos I just prevented. No one ever knows.

At the park, I float above the swings, moving just enough to keep the chains from tangling. Children giggle below, oblivious to my presence. They laugh at the movement of shadows or the wind rattling leaves. One of them glances up at me, or so I like to think, and I smile—an invisible smile that carries no warmth but all the intent.

The one I care for comes and goes, reading their letters, scribbling notes, and sometimes pausing as though sensing something just beyond sight. I hover close, brushing a curl of hair from their face with a soft gust, rearranging their pen when it rolls off the bench. I know the weight of their burdens, the worry etched into their expression. I cannot lighten it fully, but I try. I try in ways unseen, in ways they may never recognize, but that do not lessen my devotion.

Some nights, when the park is quiet, I trace the paths they walk, replaying every small gesture, every unspoken sigh. I remember their laughter from years ago, bright and careless, and I remember the day I failed to intervene. The memory coils in me, sharp and persistent, reminding me that time is both my prison and my tether.

The trains whistle in the distance, the sound that should bring fear but only brings memory. I remember the exact moment it came, the sudden shock, the unrealized chance to act. I replay it endlessly, each cycle a reminder of what I cannot fix. I was late, distracted, carrying a letter I meant to deliver. That letter held apologies, explanations, something to bridge the gap that now feels insurmountable. It slipped from my fingers and landed in a puddle. The ink ran, the words smudged into illegibility. I cannot stop seeing it, cannot stop feeling the weight of its failure.

The town begins to whisper about me. The old man who runs the corner store swears he saw a figure near the tracks, gesturing wildly. Children claim the fountain in the park sings at night, though the pipes make no such sound. People whisper about the ghost in the station, though none have ever interacted with it—none have ever truly looked. I watch these rumors blossom, knowing they are born of fear and misunderstanding, but unable to correct them. I can do nothing but observe, trapped in this quiet, invisible chaos.

A stray dog crosses my path, and I lift a loose stone to prevent it from tripping. It wags its tail, oblivious, and darts off. I feel a pang of satisfaction, the tiniest proof that my interventions matter. But the townsfolk only see the dog scurry and wonder if it was lucky. No one sees me. No one ever will.

I drift closer to the one I care for, drawn by habit and devotion, hovering near the bench as they rest against it. Their shoulders slump with exhaustion, and I feel the familiar sting of helplessness. I want to comfort them, to wrap them in a warmth they cannot feel. I brush a strand of hair from their face with a sighing gust of wind. They shiver, glance around, but see nothing. They never see anything.

One evening, when the sky turns a bruised purple, I try something bolder. I arrange fallen leaves along the path, spelling words they might recognize, if only they look closely: “Be careful.” They pause, tilting their head, and for a fraction of a second, their brow furrows. Perhaps they sense it, perhaps they feel me, perhaps they will know one day. It is fleeting, ephemeral, but I hold onto it like a treasure.

The days bleed into nights, the nights into days, and still I persist. I am a shadow pressed against reality, a whisper that no one hears, a presence that no one acknowledges. And yet, I am here. I am constant. I am attentive. I am trying. Always trying.

Almost is enough. Almost is everything.

And so I stay, floating between seconds, tied to the memory of a day I cannot leave and a person I cannot tell. I am a guardian, a witness, a shadow in the edges of their life. I will never fully be understood. I will never fully belong. But I can linger. I can protect. I can persist.

I am the ghost they do not see, the one they will never thank, the one whose voice drifts too softly to carry. And yet, I am here. Always here. Waiting, watching, hoping. Almost is enough, almost is everything. And I will wait forever.