The sun had not yet risen but I was awoken by the chill of the bedside; another day, another day, and I got up, slipped on my slippers, shuffled quietly, quietly. The water was cold on my face and like crystals, like tears, beads glittered on my lashes; I didn't dare to look in the mirror. To brush my hair and smooth out my suit, those were simple things: simple enough.
You were not yet in your dressing room when I checked, my eyes flitting over the polished floor. I did not look over the clothes I had made for you this morning. It would be a while until you chose something to grace your skin today, so I left to be productive, to make you tea, just like yesterday and the day before that and the day before that and everyday.
Takeo was in the kitchen, the warm, dimmed lights just catching his eyes as he watched me; he seemed to always be watching. There was a tender concern written on his features-it was hardly subtle-a sort of furious pity as if he was watching me bleed on my own floor, and at times, it was irritating. He opened his mouth to say something but then abandoned the tired idea. It was silent. The water boiled.
Something stopped my hand when I reached forward to open your door, the doorknob cold despite my gloves and my fingers numb. It was a silly, fleeting thought. The sun was about to rise. I pushed the teacart into your room. Your curtains swayed by the open window. For a moment, I thought I saw you where you had always been, saw your back and your ethereal gaze when you turned to look at me like you had always done, and I loved the way you looked and the way you moved and spoke and loved.
There was bird on your window sill. It took notice of me; it took flight.
You were gone; you were never there.
I smiled. I wept. Shattered on the floor and the sun kissed my skin, surely as warm as you would have been. And when I sobbed, my head bowed, I bowed to no one.
There were no such things as ghosts.