Author's Note: I don't really know how this happened but here it is sorry for the pain
The library is dark when he enters, only the faintest hints of moonlight peek through the drawn curtains, tracing lines across the floor. He knows his way well enough. The halls and rooms of this home are as much a part of him as his own flesh and bones. It's the last room he has left before retiring for the night, never truly off duty until every detail has been double checked. He follows a pattern—a ritual—corner to corner, sweeping across the room, tallying from a list that is known only to him. He's nearly finished when he notices her silhouette, nestled into the high back chair in the far corner of the room. Only half of her face is visible in the darkness, but it is tear stained and drawn tight. She is a shadow in more ways than one.
"Pardon me, Milady. Are you quite well?"
She does not acknowledge him, seemingly lost in the shell of the world that she has created—inaccessible to all but herself. Her silence unnerves him. He knows it's not proper to have favorites among the family, but Mary has always been dear to him. He moves a step closer, and her eyes meet his. Their rims are red and swollen, her lips tremble as she speaks.
"He haunts me, Carson."
The words escape as a whisper, her breathing ragged and shallow. He feels their weight like lead in his gut.
"You loved him very much Milady, and it's only natural that you would feel…"
She cuts him off before he can finish the thought
"No, not him; my son."
She struggles to say the word, just as he has seen her struggle to accept her role in his life.
"He is a specter—a reminder of the life I could have had, the person I might have been. But I'm not her Carson, I cannot be."
She loses the battle against her tears, now sliding unbidden down her cheeks. He closes the remaining distance between them and takes her hand in his. She leans toward him, pressing her forehead against the back of his hand.
"You might do well to give yourself more credit Milady."
She feigns a smile on his behalf.
"Oh Carson, You've always been kinder than I've deserved."
His grip tightens around her hand. He feels the cool metal on her fourth finger and loses any words he might have said.
Though minutes pass in silence, he remains an anchor.
And just when he begins to wonder if maybe she's fallen asleep, her eyes return to his. She speaks so softly, he's not quite sure if she's said anything at all. But she asks him again, and then again. And then she asks whomever she keeps company with in the world that belongs to herself.
"How do I love a ghost?"