A ghost in my own life
In the weeks that followed, I wandered through life like a ghost. I slept next to Liam, his scent still clinging to the sheets, a cruel reminder of what I had lost. I wore his old sweatshirt, the sleeves too long, the soft, worn fabric enveloping me in a memory both comforting and suffocating. At night, I listened to his voicemail, his voice a ghostly echo in the silence: “Hi, sweetheart.” Those two words became my refuge.
One morning, the sun pierced the curtains with a pale, almost mocking light. I was halfway through another cup of coffee when the phone rang, shattering the silence. It was his boss, Mr. Peterson, on the other end. His voice was low and strained.
“Emily, I shouldn’t tell you this over the phone. Liam left something in his office safe. A file. Your name is on it.”
I sat bolt upright in bed, gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles turned white. “What kind of file?” I asked, my heart pounding.
There was a heavy silence, thick with unspoken words. “I can’t tell you over the phone. You have to see it with your own eyes.”
