Chapter 4

[I gathered the trash. Remember to take it out tomorrow.]

[Already took it out.]

[I scrubbed the toilet. Stop using my toothbrush.]

[Didn't touch your toothbrush. It fell in by itself.]

I stared at that last reply for a solid three seconds, then burst out laughing until my sides hurt. This ghost had a sense of humor.

Later, the notes started getting longer.

I began venting to him about work. [Ran into a nightmare client today. Looked at the same apartment eight times. Asked a hundred questions.

[Then she said she needed to think it over. Think what over? It's not like you're a ghost or something.]

[House hunting takes time. A client picking a home is like picking a partner. It's all about fate.]

I stared at his reply for a while. He had a point.

I wrote: [You know about buying property?]

[Bought a few places before.]

A few places. There was some weight behind that statement.

I wrote: [What did you do for a living?]

Silence.

The next day, the sticky note held only one character: [Pass.]

I got the message. If he didn't want to talk about it, I wouldn't push.

But slowly, he started to open up anyway.

One day I wrote: [Had an interview with a firm today. Didn't get it. They said my design style is too 'academic' and not commercial enough.

[What does commercial even mean? Dressing everyone the same, making everyone look identical? That's not design. That's an assembly line.]

His reply the next day was long. Longer than any message I had gotten from him before.

[Design is expression, not replication. There's nothing wrong with being academic. At least you know what beauty is. Commercial work chases quick money.

[It doesn't last. Stick to your vision. Someone will notice eventually.]

I stared at those words, and my eyes suddenly stung.

I had been out of school for half a year. No one had ever said anything like that to me.

My colleagues at the agency just said, "It's a shame you ended up here with that degree." My mom just said, "I told you to get a government job, but you wouldn't listen. Now you see how tough it is."

Only this ghost, whoever he was, told me seriously to stick to my guns.

I wrote: [Thank you.]

He replied: [You're welcome. I saw your drawings. They're good.]

I froze.

He saw them? When? My sketchbook had been sitting on the nightstand. Wait, he was a ghost. Floating around was kind of his thing, wasn't it?

I wrote: [You snooped through my stuff?]

[It was on your nightstand. Hardly snooping.]

I wrote: [That's my nightstand.]

[My turf is your turf? You said that the first night.]

I had no comeback. I had said that.

I wrote: [Fine. Which one did you like best?]

[The one with the red dress.]

I laughed out loud.

That piece was my favorite from my graduation portfolio. A red evening gown with a fishtail hem and an open back.

In the sketch, the model was looking back over her shoulder, and the skirt flared up behind her like a flame.

My advisor had called it too flamboyant and not subtle enough. She suggested I tone it down.

I didn't change a thing and turned it in as it was. It ended up getting an outstanding grade.

I wrote: [Why that one?]

[Because it's bold.]

The word hit me right in the chest.

We talked more and more. Sometimes about work, sometimes about life, and sometimes just random nonsense.

Emery didn't say much, but every word he said hit the mark.

I started waking up every morning looking forward to seeing what he had left on the sticky note.

I also started getting used to coming home every night, sitting by the shoe cabinet, and writing to him about my day. I told him what had happened, who I had met, and what was on my mind.

One day I wrote: [It feels like I talk to you every single day, but I don't even know your name.]

The next morning, two new characters had appeared on the note. [Emery Morris.]

It was a nice name.

I wrote: [I'm Melanie Flores. You know that.]

[I know.]

I smiled. He had remembered.

I wrote: [Emery. Why are you here?]

That question had been on my mind for a long time. Why was his spirit trapped in this apartment? Why couldn't he leave?

Why had all those other tenants been scared off, but I was fine?

The reply took two days.

The first day, the sticky note just said: [Can we talk about this in person?]

I stared at those words, and my heart skipped a beat. In person? How?

The second night, I turned off the lights and lay in bed, listening to that familiar breathing.