The smell of heated vegetable soup filled my small kitchen later that evening. I set two bowls on the table, alongside a plastic container of saltines. Rachel sat opposite me, her face pale under the harsh overhead light of my apartment. She had just finished a ten-hour shift at the grocery store, and she immediately reached up to adjust her faded green apron strap, pulling it flat against her shoulder as she slumped in the chair.
On the counter sat a small bouquet of white daisies she had brought me from the store, the orange clearance tag still stuck to the plastic sleeve showing the price of seven dollars.
“He does not have a single photograph in the entire house,” I said, sitting down and picking up my spoon. “No family photos, no old vacation snapshots, nothing on the mantel. It is like he moved in yesterday, or like he plans to leave tomorrow.”
“Maybe he is just a neat freak,” Rachel said, blowing on her soup before taking a small bite.
“The house is clean, but it is more than that,” I said. “He moves like someone who is used to people waiting on him. He knew exactly how I liked my tea before I even took the honey out of the cupboard.”
Rachel stopped her spoon halfway to her mouth and squinted at me, her eyes narrowing with a look of sharp concern.
“Megan, you have to be careful,” she said. “People who live like ghosts usually have a very good reason for it.”
“He is a terminally ill man who wants some quiet company,” I said, though the doubt in my own voice surprised me. “He is not a threat to anyone. He spends his days sitting in a chair, playing chess by himself.”
“He could be running from something,” Rachel said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Or someone. What if he has another family somewhere who has been looking for him for years?”
