That Ghost

Micaela was by all means a normal young girl who grew to be as tall as her own mother was as time went by, and aged. She had friends, lost friends and gained friends as time passed by. She learned of this and that as she grew; what was once something amazing, as kid, became something foolish to her in her early teens. Yes, she changed, she aged, and she grew just like everyone else.

But one thing never changed in her life, and it was that boy whom she would see from her window late at night, standing quietly in the small garden behind her house. He never changed. She remembered the first time she'd seen him. She was but a child then. And like any other child she didn't really like the idea of sleeping early.

She had looked out of the window then, mesmerized by the beauty of the full moon, and then there, she saw him standing in his simple red and black clothes, bathing in the moonlight. His skin looked like it was of porcelain, his hair was as black as night, and on his forehead was something glinting and reflecting the moonlight.

She remembered being amazed then, and staring out of the window, her eyes riveted on him dreamily. Perhaps she'd developed a crush for him then. Perhaps.

He would disappear into the darkness from whence he came from in a few minutes, an hour or so, and there was this mystery about him that stirred her curiosity.

As time went by, she continued to watch him, secretly. She would wonder what he was, or where he was from. She wanted to know his name, and would ask the night sometimes in a dreamy whisper, 'What is your name?'

She grew and he remained the same. His ebony black hair remained as black and flawless as the night. His small, lithe body never grew taller, fatter, or thinner. And he would always stand there, quietly, and leave after a few minutes or an hour at most, into the darkness.

She began writing poems for him and whispering her poems into the night.

He never changed, she grew, and now in her fifteenth year she began to wonder about his existence. Was he a ghost? What was he?

Her simple curiosity was replaced with the urge to unveil his true identity.

She laid her wooden brush on her vanity and headed for the window. She waited for a while, almost doubting he'd come, but then he came. And once again she was caught in his spell.

His figure stepped out of the darkness and it sent wanted shivers down her spine. It always made her heart skip a bit whenever she saw him step out like that. It reminded her of the dramatic entrances of the prince-charmings in the plays she'd seen.

He was her prince charming.

He took a few steps forward before turning slightly to his left and then taking a few more steps. He finally stopped and there he stood, his eyes fixed on something. That something, however, was yet another mystery to Micaela.

One reason was the fact that it was hidden by some rose bushes, the other reason was the fact that that garden was restricted to locals.

He stood there, unmoving. The wind howled slightly and began to tease his hair, but he made no movement whatsoever.

He stayed not for an hour, or half an hour but a mere few minutes before disappearing into the darkness again.

I wonder what his name is.

She didn't know, however had her parents seen him, or had she told them, or anyone about him, they'd eagerly, and proudly tell her.

That boy is Lord Riou, the ageless and legendary hero of the Jowston-Highland War some twenty years ago. And that? That is his sister's resting-place. There was supposed to be another one buried there, but, I guess whoever that was, he was unimportant.

She never knew and so she grew, had children and continued watching that ageless boy. That ghost of the past, or whatever he was. He remained the same, forever young, unchanging, and perfect, as she grew old, older, and died.

Her children watched him too, and so it went on, and on, and on. The ghost remained unknown to them.