The words looked absurd, written out to- gether. Like the scattered notes of someone losing her grip. Kat stepped back slowly, marker dangling from her fingertips. “Am I writing a ghost story,” she muttered softly, “or living one?”
That was when she spotted Ethan sitting quietly on the porch behind his own place two doors down. He looked up as if sensing her before he ac- tually saw her.
Neither of them spoke.
Kat simply crossed the grass barefoot, coffee mug still in hand, and lowered herself into the chair beside him. The morning air was warm but gentle, the kind of Florida day that felt almost suspend- ed in time. Somewhere nearby, wind chimes clinked softly. For several long moments, they just sat to- gether in silence.
The question lingered in the quiet trailer.
A breeze drifted through the jalousie win- dows carrying the scent of saltwater and mangroves. Needing air, Kat grabbed her coffee and stepped outside onto the small patio behind her trailer. Sunlight danced across the canal, turning the water into rippling sheets of silver.
And somehow, that silence felt easier than
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