Lily

"Cross...? Cross! Look alive, kid!"

"Ah." Michael slammed his laptop shut and pretended that he hadn't gotten distracted reading his mother's latest blog post. "Yes, Mr. Anderson?"

Michael's boss slammed a stack of papers onto his desk.

"Hate to give you a workload on such short notice," he grumbled, seeming only a little bit like he meant it, "but Conway called in sick. You mind ghostwriting? He faxed me his notes, but I can't write an entire article with it—"

"Consider it done," Michael interrupted.

"Good. Also, I'll need Jenkins' article proofread, edited, and submitted to me by Wednesday, not Friday."

Mr. Frederick didn't even bother to offer a half-assed apology for his second sudden request before he slapped Michael on the shoulder and headed for the break room. Michael sighed.

Though he was technically an investigative journalist, Michael found that his job at the local newspaper office mostly involved editing, ghostwriting, and penning short pieces on boring local events. It was a small city and not heavily populated, so not a lot went on, and most people bought the newspaper just to keep up and for the crossword puzzles. It wasn't the thrilling life he'd expected when he'd started his major, but it paid the bills, and he could often work from home and at his own pace. He couldn't really complain.

He spent the day writing an article under his coworker's name, and before long, his shift had ended. He'd forgotten to take a lunch break again. Just as he exited the building, his cell phone rang.

Right on cue, Michael thought.

"Mikey? Did you like the newest post?"

Michael looked around to make sure that he wasn't bothering any of the other pedestrians.

"What makes you think I've read it? I only just finished working."

"You always read it as soon as I post. I know that you get email updates."

Michael laughed quietly enough that he could be sure she couldn't hear it. It seemed there was no point in trying to deceive his mother. If he was always one step ahead of everyone, she was a thousand steps further.

"...I thought it was very interesting, as always," Michael said plainly, "though I don't much appreciate being referred to as your 'know-it-all son'. Besides, isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?"

Michael heard his mother laughing, and he was sure he could hear his sister in the background.

Michael's mother had been a seer for decades now, and she liked to share her knowledge with the unenlightened and paranormal enthusiasts alike, mostly through her blog and through e-books. Her name was famous among a very specific group of people. Michael had only ever run into a few people who had heard of her. This meant that he could live his day-to-day life without the fuss of her celebrity. But when he did run into fans of hers, they were obsessive, and they'd start asking him a thousand questions about his own gifts without any regard for confused eavesdroppers. It was very much a mixed bag.

His mother, at least, was respectful of Michael's privacy and avoided giving out too much personal information about him. Even when it resulted in referring to him as "a certain stubborn boy of mine" or something similar.

"I call it like I see it," his mother replied. That was probably her favorite phrase. "Maybe quit bein' such a smartass, and I'll think of somethin' different to call ya."

Whenever she insulted him, her accent got stronger, Michael noticed. He rolled his eyes, but didn't argue with her.

"What are you actually calling about?"

She paused. He'd gotten her.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, since when are you so concerned with my opinion that you go out of your way to ask me? That can't be why you called." And if I'm a smartass, I came by it honestly, he didn't add.

His mother sighed.

"...Your sister told me that you've stumbled across an interesting ghost. Have you figured out how a dead man's paying his bills yet?"

Michael stopped walking as soon as Andrew was dragged into the conversation. He sat on a nearby bench and made sure no one was eavesdropping.

"Not yet. He works from home. I know that much. I've been trying to play my cards very carefully since he doesn't know that he's dead."

"We're talking about a cold walker here? What degree?"

"He can interact with his surroundings, he can eat, he feels cold and warmth, and he seems to have a daily routine. I usually run into Andy when he's checking his mail. And get this: he changes his clothes. Almost every day that I see him, he's wearing a different sweater."

"Hmm." She was clearly intrigued by that last detail. "In all my years of seeing, I've never seen that. ...How long has he been a spirit?"

Michael grinned. He'd finally found a ghost that his mother had never seen the likes of.

"At least as long as I've been in the building, so... Eight months? A year, maybe? He definitely doesn't know that he's a ghost, though. He's scared of ghosts."

Michael's mother barked out a harsh laugh at that.

"Now there's a new one." She left the room she had been in, if the creaking hardwood that Michael barely heard meant what he assumed it did. "...These things can be dangerous, you know," she warned.

"I'm well aware," Michael insisted, "but... I'm worried about him. He's young, and he's timid, but he's so kind to me. I don't know if he could take the realization, but I also don't want him spending an eternity like this, and who better to ease him into this than someone he trusts? If I can—"

"It sounds like you care an awful lot for this one."

Michael breathed, hard, out through his nose.

"I said as much already, didn't I?"

"Don't misunderstand me. I'm not just restating the obvious here. I'm telling you not to rush into things without thinking." She inhaled a sharp breath. Michael could imagine her stern gaze. "Or did you forget what happened the last time you let your feelings get the better of you?"

Michael winced.

"No," he replied too quickly. "I haven't forgotten."

"Good. Call me with the details if you learn anything new, but don't get ahead of yourself, okay? ...I'll talk to you later. Your sister wants something."

She hung up without leaving him a pause for farewell. Michael glared at his phone for a moment. His mother knew that he didn't like to talk about that, right? So why bring it up?

He squeezed at the faint bands around his neck. Most people assumed the wound was a birthmark of some kind. No one had ever studied it closely enough to notice that it was a faded series of scars, and one that perfectly mimicked the shape of human fingers.

He resumed his walk home after taking a moment to stretch his legs. He hummed a quiet tune and avoided standing too close to the people on the sidewalks. He'd usually take the bus, but on nice days like this, he walked. It was a good way to clear his head and stay in shape.

Michael's mother had always had the gift. His sister had it, too, even if Michael's was a bit stronger. He'd developed his mantra and his prayer when he was only seven, and he'd carried a tin full of sage and a blessed amulet on his person since he was nine. He'd been doing this his whole life, and so he liked to think that he knew exactly what he was doing (even if he sometimes envied his sister's assertiveness).

But, truth be be told, he didn't always know what to do next. And the scar around his neck was a constant reminder of that.

"There he is— that's the one," an irritating voice said to her conversational partner as soon as Michael made it into the lobby of his apartment building. "That boy's always talking to himself!"

Michael tried not to glare at her, donning his usual polite smile instead.

"Good afternoon, Miss Friedman."

She scoffed in response. The woman never had a kind word for anyone, and she always seemed to appear when Michael was least expecting her, so she'd overheard more than a few of his conversations with ghosts.

He collected his mail, and then he dutifully headed for the elevator.

He noticed someone unusual the moment the door slid open. He walked right up to her.

"Lily? Aren't you usually on the floor below this one?"

The girl stared at her shoes. She was carrying a stuffed rabbit that Michael had never seen before. Besides that, nothing had changed— the same green and white dress, and the same pigtails.

"...I guess so." She didn't intend to say anything more on that, it seemed. She hid the rabbit behind her back when she noticed Michael's eyes on it.

Michael didn't press her to talk. Her eyes, blank and hollow, studied the whole of him without ever looking at his face. He stayed calm, stayed patient, until she felt comfortable speaking again.

"Mr. Mike?"

She looked into his eyes. He smiled.

"Yes, Lily?"

"...What year is it?"

It was hard not to frown at that line of questioning.

"It's the year two thousand eighteen," he answered honestly. Lily seemed disinterested, outwardly, but her presence flickered in a way that told Michael she didn't like that answer.

"It's been a very long time," she half-whispered.

Michael knelt down to her height.

"It has been," he agreed, "but that's okay. You deserved more time here, sweetheart."

He tentatively reached forward and gave Lily a gentle pat on the head. She seemed surprised, but her cheeks flushed and she smiled, if only very slightly. She touched the warm spot as soon as Michael's hand left it. She nodded.

"I'll be going now," she said, and she had vanished completely before Michael could add anything else.

He felt that the conversation had gone about as well as it could have. If she was asking those sorts of questions, maybe she had grown tired of being here.

Michael waited a moment more, just in case she wanted to return and say something else, before he stood and entered his apartment.

It was always somewhat dim, even with all of the lights on and with sunlight streaming through the window, and the hot water rarely worked, and the floorboards were creaky and loose in a few places. Even so, it felt like home.

His home, wherever it happened to be, always smelled like books. This place in particular smelled like old books. Like a library. There was a shelf in his "living room" full of assorted mementos and objects that wouldn't make much sense to a stranger. Photos of unfamiliar people, children's toys, the occasional sketchbook or knickknack, and, most recently, supplies for feeding and caring for rescued birds...

It wasn't an aesthetically-pleasing or sensible arrangement. It was Michael's favorite part of the apartment. And soon, he hoped, he would add a stuffed rabbit to his ever-growing collection.