Two weeks in a row - yay me! 

Taking a stab at #ThursThreads again and I felt drawn back to the snip I started last week with the man in mourning. Last week's prompt and this week's seemed to play nicely together. Not sure if this will eventually become something or not, but just getting the words out as they come. 

All of the entries to #ThursThreads can be found here: ThursThreads

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My entry:

Their penthouse held too many memories, so he stayed away. Without her there, the dwelling was lifeless shell of where they had built their life together. He couldn’t even call it a home anymore. His home died the day she did.

Standing on the balcony of his Hills property where they would often go to get away from the city was no different. It felt cold and lifeless, despite the warm California sun. His only company was her ghost, always lingering near him but never making a sound. Her voice, her touch, all memories now. At least he had an eidetic memory so he wouldn’t forget a single moment he had with her.

“It’s quiet here,” he said to her. “Too quiet.”

She nodded but said nothing.

“What I would do to hear your voice again, your touch.”

Her ghost looked at him sadly but made no move to try to touch him. Like it would matter anyway. She was just a figment of his imagination, his grief manifesting.

His cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it, like he had all of the other calls and texts from his friends -their friends. They were concerned, but he was beyond caring. There wasn’t anything any of them could do. She was gone. He hadn’t talked to anyone since her funeral, unless shouting at God counted. Not that even doing that mattered, since he knew God wasn’t listening. God hadn’t listened for a long time. Why start now?

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Find me on Twitter/X or whatever it's called this week: @mlgammella