One of my earliest memories

I don’t remember how I came to be in that house. Everyone was asleep, but I was drawn to one of the upstairs rooms. The stairs were creaky but I was quiet. I was always quiet.

I peaked inside the room — it was a bedroom. There was a child sleeping, facing away from the door. I crept closer. Suddenly I knew that he could sense me, but he wouldn’t turn around. The boy was still but his eyes were open. Was he afraid of me?

We remained in the same position forever. He was facing away from me but the longer I remained the more clearly he could see my face.

I don’t remember how I came to be in that house, and I don’t remember how I left. Since I died my memories have become vague. I remember visiting people and watching over them, but not how I got there, or why. To be honest, I don’t even remember being alive once. Maybe that is why I visit the living. To remember.

The Daily Post: Reverse Shot

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