As soon as the door opens, I bolt into the closet to avoid being seen. I do this every time Lilian comes home, but today it’s even more important. She’s mad. I can’t tell who she’s yelling at yet, but I can hear crying.

“Would you stop?! You know who I am!”

“No, I don’t!” she says, crying even harder. I can see her now; she's a little girl, and she looks to be six or seven.

“I am your mother! Stop playing around Ashlynn, or you’ll be going to bed early tonight.” I could tell how exasperated she was, but Lilian doesn’t have a daughter. She’s thirty-two, and has never been married, or been in a relationship long enough to have a child.

The little girl quiets gradually, and when she finally forces herself to stop crying, she says, “My name is not Ashlynn, it’s Eva, and I think you mixed me up with your own child. My mommy’s name is Helen, and my daddy’s name is Robert. I live on-” but Lilian cuts her off.

“Your name is Ashlynn, I am your mother, and your father died two months ago!” She screams the last bit, and Eva starts crying again.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. It’s probably the landlord, coming for the monthly check. Lilian goes wide-eyed, but walks toward the door. “Go sit in the living room, Ashlynn.”

She smooths her dress and opens the door. “Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

When he comes in, I see that it’s a police officer. “Ma’am, we got a call a few minutes ago, saying that one of your neighbors saw something moving in here, and you weren’t home yet.

Would you mind if I take a look around real quick?” But he’s already walking in before she can nod her answer.

Doesn’t he realize that there’s something wrong with Lilian? She’s a wreck, and it’s only going to get worse.

I’m the one who was seen in here earlier. I sometimes come in here and try on my old clothes that Lilian never got rid of. It makes me feel real, since I died two months ago. I’ve been watching over her, making sure she’s alright. Lilian and I were together for two years.

Before I died, she told me that I was the only man she ever loved. There is definitely something going on with her, though. She didn’t used to be like this.

I always loved taking Lilian places, and spending time with her. She was a little uncertain of our relationship at first; she wasn’t very open with her feelings. But after a while, everything seemed so natural.

But Lilian never wanted a child. She specifically told me that when I would bring it up, hoping she’d change her mind. I don’t know where she found that little girl, but she seems to actually think her name is Ashlynn, and that I’m her father.

After looking all through the house, he goes into the living room, and sees Eva. She looks scared, so he sits down cautiously. “Hello," he says, "And who might you be?”

She just stares, and doesn’t say anything, probably thinking that Lilian was going to freak out again if she says Eva.

“It’s alright. You can tell me. What’s wrong?” Nothing. “Can you tell me your name?” Still no answer.

He takes out his spiral pad and a pen and hands it to her. She takes it, but doesn’t write anything down.

Lilian comes in, carrying coffee. “What’s going on?” she says suspiciously, looking back and forth between the two.

“Is this your daughter?” he asks, looking at Eva the whole time.

Lilian is silent for a moment. “Yes, of course, she’s my daughter. Why else would she be in my house, on my couch?” she asks him defensively.

“Ma’am, she looks terrified, and there is nothing in this house that suggests a child lives here. I’m going to have to ask you to go stand in the foyer for a few minutes while I talk to the girl.” He turns to Eva as Lilian walks away.

“Now, I want you to tell me your name, so we can get you back to your real parents. Can you tell me?”

She stays quiet for a moment, and then recites what she tried telling Lilian earlier. “My name is Eva. My mom’s name is Helen, and my dad’s name is Robert. We live in a neighborhood called White Springs, and I was at the playground when she-” She looks up at Lilian, who is now crying. “She came over to me and picked me up, calling me her baby, like I was her daughter. I don’t know her though, please help me.” She talks so quickly he has to scribble to keep up.

“Okay, Eva. Do you know your parents’ phone number? Or your address?” She shakes her head no.

“I’m sorry.” She pauses. “I'm still going home, right?” She actually looks scared that he’ll say no.

“Of course you will. I’ll be right back.” he tells her, and walks into the foyer to talk to Lilian. “Can we go outside and talk?” he asks her, eyeing the door.

“Sure.” She looks upset, like it’s actually her daughter who is about to be taken from her.

~

Before I died, Lilian was put in a mental hospital to care for her, and to fix her. They said that she was experiencing a break from reality, caused by the loss of a loved one. They don’t know about me; no one does, but they know that her dad died earlier this year.

She broke down at least once a day, being trapped in a small room alone, aside from her once a day therapy session. Lilian is considered one of the dangerous ones in this place.

I visit her everyday, and most days, I stay all day. She started talking to herself more and more frequently, which the doctors found concerning, but she was trying to talk herself through everything that had happened.

And then- well, then, she started talking to me, too. She told me she was sorry, that she loved me so much, that she wanted to see me- just one more time, if that’s all she could.

She just wanted a chance to apologize, to make it up to me for what she did. I never spoke back, but I listened, whenever she needed it.

~

About two months ago, Lilian was still grieving her dad’s death, and I came over to her house to comfort her. She seemed to be telling herself that he was coming back, that he just went to the store, and took a detour, that he got lost, that he was getting directions, on and on until I tried to tell her that he was gone for good.

Lilian had been my everything, so I wanted to help her feel better, to move one, even if she still missed him. But she shut down, stopped talking to me. And I know I shouldn’t have, but I left. She kept telling me I couldn’t help her, and that I was worthless, that if she had been with her dad more instead of me, he would still be here.

I had given up on talking to her for the week, but then I saw her walking in the park. Out of impulse, I went up to her, asked if we could talk. She tried to walk away, but I followed. She ignored me all the way back to her house, even when I tried telling her that I loved her, that I would always be there for her, that she could tell me anything she needed to get out of her system. But she slammed the door on me,

I could tell she wasn’t okay, and I still had a key to her house, so I went in. She was in the kitchen, starting to make dinner. “Sit down.” she said. I looked at her questioningly. She looked straight through me. “What are you waiting for?! I said sit!”

So I sat. She rushed around the kitchen, banging pots and pans and gathering ingredients that made no sense together. I stood up.

“Lilian, are you alright?”

“I told you to sit down!” She was screaming at this point.

“Lilian, listen to me, Please, just talk to-”

“No! I said sit down! Stop telling me that everything is fine and that it’s going to be okay, and that everything I’m feeling is normal! I lost my only living parent, the only person who ever cared about me! I! Am! Alone! But you wouldn’t get it, because everyone cares about you! Just get out of my life!”

“Lilian, you need help. You can’t live like this. I’ll go if that’s what you want, but then you would be really alone. I love you, Lilian. I always will, and I’m so glad I have you. I don’t want to lose you. I need you.” I’m crying but she doesn’t seem to care.

She pauses, silent, except for the sound of her breath hitching as she cries. “I love you too, Jack.”

I move toward her, and wrap my arms around her. We stay there like that for a while, just hugging her, crying, while I tell her how much I love her.

I whisper, “He may be gone, but you can still talk to him whenever you want to.” Her eyes go wide, and she gets mad again, shoving me away.

“He’s not gone! He’s coming back! He would never leave me!” She’s back to screaming, “I know he’s not gone. You’re both just pranking me. He’s on vacation somewhere. That’s where he’s been! That’s why he’s been gone! Don’t lie to me!”

She picks up the cutting board off the floor, washes it, and starts haphazardly chopping onions and other vegetables.

“Be careful, you’ll hurt yourself. Do you want me to do it instead?” I ask, hoping she’ll put the knife down before she cuts herself. I walk toward her slowly. “Honey, come relax for a few minutes. I grab her arm gently, trying to ease her out of whatever came over her, like I did before. “Lilian. Lilian, I need you to talk to me.” With my other hand, I gently take her wrist, the hand she’s holding the knife with.

She seems to cooperate, but then her eyes go wide, and she realizes what I’m doing.

“Lilian, please, just calm down.” I tighten my grip just in case, but she’s faster than me. She slips out of my hold, and walks around to the other side of the island countertop.

“Lilian! Please, Lilian! We can work through this. You will be alright. I’ll get you someone to talk to. We can even go together if you want. I love-”

But she charged at me, and everything went black as my head hit the counter and I fell to the ground.

When I woke up, I could float, and go through walls, and no one could see me. I don’t blame her for what she did. She was hurt- and something was going on. She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t herself. I don’t think she ever will be again.

I watch her now, and she doesn’t seem happy, but she seems at peace. And I’m happy for her. She’ll make it. Even if I didn’t.

My Grandma gave me cosmetics for the holidays.

I loved my Grandma, and I shouldn't have been surprised considering we only see her once a year. I didn't hate wearing makeup, I was usually just too lazy to put it on.

Grandma did not skimp out that year. She got me a full (and possibly slightly expensive) bag for everything, despite not being able to fit it all, packed to the brim with eye shadow, blush, hair care, and a small container of mint lip gloss.

Because I didn't want it to just rot away in my room, I took a few minutes in the mornings before school to put on some eye shadow and lip gloss. Honestly, I thought it makes me feel more awake, just poking my eye with colors at 6:30 in the morning.

My friends noticed it, of course, because I only ever put on makeup for Halloween or special occasions.

On a day I had gray eye shadow on, my friend said to me "I like your makeup Jill! Wait are you wearing makeup or are you just tired?", which, although a fair statement, is not one I appreciate.

My life didn't rapidly change or anything, just sometimes received a comment from friends about not looking like a walking corpse.

But it was different in mid-February when a girl I had never spoken to came up to me.

"Mint?" She smiled as if she asked me something comprehensible.

I eloquently responded with, "Huh?", as one does.

She laughed and tapped her lips. "Mint lip gloss, right?"

"Yeah," I was shocked. By this time of day, all traces of it had usually vanished. "How'd you know?"

"Oh, you know." She waved it off. "Hey, you're in my math class, right? Did you understand Mr. Thompson's homework?"

Her name was Sally, and we started talking after that. She would find me at lunch, or whenever we had free time in math, and just start talking to me. It was a bit off-putting at first, but after three weeks I had gotten used to her presence.

The still cold March weather was getting to be one day, and I was shivering despite having on a thick sweater. Probably because they didn't bother heating the cafeteria.

"Hey, Jill!" Sally was suddenly next to me. The first few times she did that, it startled me, but I was expecting it.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Just really bored today." She sighed and laid her chin down on the table. "Do you want to come over today after school or something?"

I shrugged. I had nothing going on, and I had to admit I was curious about Sally's house. "As long as you have heating, I'm in."

She perked up. "Great! I can drive us there right after school if you're fine with that."

At 2:43, we were in her driveway. I remember the time so clearly because my mom texted me then if I needed anything from the store. I forgot to text her back.

Sally pulled out a key a opened the door, pushing me inside.

Her house was strange. Not like 'covered in blood and guts' strange, but it threw me off how fake everything looked. Like a house, you would see in a commercial for insurance.

"Just throw your bag anywhere, and make yourself comfortable! Do you want hot chocolate or tea?"

I sat down on the couch. It was stiff. "Hot chocolate."

She nodded and walked into the kitchen. Sally couldn't have been gone for more than seven minutes, but it felt like I sat there for hours. There was no noise from anywhere in the house, except for my own occasional breathing.

She walked back in with two mugs and handed me one before sitting next to me.

"I assumed you would be alright with whipped cream and sprinkles on it."

"Of course. I'll never say no to sweets." I laughed but felt weird having a tall sugar-filled cup while her mug looked so plain. I took a sip, and it wasn't as sweeter as I expected, tasting more bitter than anything.

"Do you want to work on homework or something? I'll help you with math if you help me with history."

Sally grinned and stood up. I had never seen her smile that wide. "Yeah," She set her mug on the coffee table. "Let's go up to my room."

I only had gotten halfway through my drink, but I couldn't say anything about it, because as soon as I had risen, I fell straight to the floor, shattering the mug.

"Oops." I could only hear her. My head couldn't move from the floor. "I was hoping you would set the mug down before the effects took place." Despite not having any recently, I swore that I tasted the strong after taste of almonds in my mouth.

Fingers grasped my chin and lifted up my throbbing head. Sally was blurry but clear as she kneeled in front of me, barely avoiding the spilled drink and shards.

She ran a finger over my lips and sighed. "Aw, I guess your mint lip gloss was rubbed off."

Anya sat by the river every day, watching the clear water flow on its own, traveling through the quiet valley. The sky was cloudless, the gentle spring breeze playing with the strands of Anya's hair.

Anya came to this secret place of hers, always bringing a bag with her. She took out the pieces of paper from the bag: red, purple, orange, pink, and yellow. There was no particular reason behind the choice; Anya just liked the colors.

Anya made flowers out of the paper she brought with her. Anya enjoyed her solitude, folding the paper gently to resemble a flower shape.

Anya's mother taught her how to fold the paper into the beautiful shape of a flower. It was a delicate process that required concentration and patience.

"It doesn't matter if you try and fail." The most important thing is the effort you put forth. The results will come gradually," is what Anya's mother used to say to her when she was frustrated about not folding the paper right.

"But, mom, what if I never get it right?" Anya didn't want to disappoint her mother, who always took the time to sit with her and play with paper.

"Oh, honey, don't worry. No matter how long it takes, I'm sure you'll do it. And even if you don't, that won't change anything. I'll always love you and support you; remember that."

Anya returned to the present. Those memories resurface when she's by the river, making paper flowers. It seemed like an eternity since Anya first started this little hobby of hers.

No, not a hobby. It was a ritual that she shared with her mother—an unspoken promise made between a mother and a daughter.

It was the only thing left that still connected Anya to her mother. She never gave up making paper flowers, even in the toughest of times.

The paper flowers that she let float on the water's surface were Anya's way to feel close to someone dear to her—to someone who's no longer physically there.

However, her mother's gentle touch guides Anya even now as she sits by the river in her own little world.

Anya's mother is there, in those paper flowers that Anya so lovingly creates.

Reflection in the same window,

Waiting for the night to come,

So that the moonlight can hide her shadow,

As she runs,

Raven colored dress and silky long hair,

Her skin is like starlight,

A black butterfly is tattooed behind her left ear; a mark of imprisonment,

She grabs her cotton cloak before running to the stone stairs,

Each tap reverberates across palace walls

Travelling like a ghost across these halls,

Her handlers are at a conference tonight,

This is her shot at freedom as she takes different passageways,

For years they have brainwashed and tortured her,

She finally was able to free her mind when she saw the moonlight,

The first time, many days ago,

Now she is running to get back her life,

The scent of pine fills her nose with fresh air,

Imprisoning warmth no longer restraining her,

As she finally makes it outside,

Holding her cloak closer to her body,

She continues to run,

Past the dark green trees and branches

Her feet burn as the twigs snap beneath her feet

The forest seems to be endless,

Moonlight glows brightly over her,

Time melts into nothingness,

Until she finds an opening,

Loud voices start echoing,

She gives it everything,

As she practically dives out of the woods,

And lands onto the cold road,

The woods behind her finally disappear,

Flying away the black butterfly departs from her skin

As she looks up to see nothing there

Just the golden sun rising

For the first time in years.

Rustling the leaves in autumn, scuffling my way through the familiar sound of nails on a chalkboard as I hit the downward spiral.

Winter moisture in the air, snow falls on my nose, frost bites my windows.

Waiting is the game I’ve learned too well, small sprinkle of fairy dust and a happy thought holding off for you to meet me here.

Inhale the spring wind, shifting through my hair, throw on my running shoes and I’ll meet you there.

Holding onto a hope, a dream, something to keep you tangible. Grasping the image of you, the hope for you to appear. It has been so long my memory is becoming so fragile. Trapped between the broken pieces of window where we held hands and jumped out of like Peter Pan, off to never land, but I’ve grown up and forgotten how to fly.

Perfect walls surround the walls of my heart.

A heart of glass—

So fragile, so breathtaking—

So unique.

The walls are made of pearls and silver,

Melted together with sapphires and emeralds,

Blended with jades and rubies.

It’s sparkles different colors, shimmering in-

The sunlight— and the Moonlight.

The inner wall inside this beautiful wall

Is made of refined, pure gold.

Sunstones are scattered across the top edge.

Written unto the very center are words—

Words of such beauty and love,

They ring of joy and meaning.

Yet there is another wall that surrounds both,

It is made of white stone,

Unblemished and pure.

In these stones are engraved names,

All who are named—are allowed to enter.

Thriving green vines grow across the stone,

They produce bright colorful flowers,

Flowers that have never been seen before.

And unto the very center, inside the last wall—

There lies a beautiful crystal room.

There is a light coat of untouched snow that lies on the ground.

The columns are made of ice,

Carved to portray the most beautiful memories.

There is a table, it is made of water,

It moves yet keeps its place and shape.

There also, were three doors.

The first door was made of pine,

It was painted in shades of colors never seen before,

And it glowed in the shimmering light like a rainbow.

It was unlocked, and inside every happy-

Joyful, beautiful, lovely, pure memory was displayed.

The second, which sat at the far right,

Was made of stainless steel,

It was coated with the night sky,

And the stars were displayed across it.

The door was also unlocked,

And inside lay every beautiful—

Good, awe-inspiring, joyous thing ever to be done.

The final door, which lay between the two doors

Was made of tar.

It glittered with black diamonds,

And there was a lock of iron.

Nothing could get in—

And nothing could get out.

Yet if one could see inside—

They would find a room so dark…

Filled with every sorrow, grief, pain, and confused thought.

Jars of tears were scattered across woven shelves,

Nightmares and memories of hurt were written on the walls.

If the door had been unlocked,

One could have shed light

On the memories of and in the dark.

Yet the door remained locked.

Trapped inside a crystal room,

Behind a gold wall with sunstones scattered across the top edge,

And a silver wall embedded with

Pearls, and sapphires, and emeralds—

And jades, and rubies, and sparkling with-

Hundreds of different colors.

Behind a wall of pure white stone—

Scattered with flowers never seen before—

Along the unblemished wall with names yet to be- carved in it.

Visible to any who are permitted to enter.

Two nights ago I saw a man wearing a big yellow hat placing stars in the sky. He stood on his tippy-toes on top of the waves to get them just so, in the right spot. I call out to him from the bow, “Hello! Do you do all of this? Put up all of the stars?”. The man looks over the waves, noticing us, for maybe the first time. He sees me at the bow of our little ship in the big wide open ocean. He simply smiles and waves, tipping his hat. ‘There’s no need’, his smile says. I watch him as he walks, pulling stars from his pockets, choosing their familiar spots, sometimes placing them, sometimes giving them a gentle toss if he can’t quite reach. His aim is perfect, every star landing where he intends. As he walks, further towards the horizon, the sky continues to darken and he keeps on tossing up stars.

Erato is the song I hear in my sleep

when darkness cloaks the world in maybes,

might be’s, could be’s, and should be’s,

the gray sheen descends over bedrooms,

masking truths and leaving subtle traces of things,

but this is when I hear your song the strongest

like a seabird skirting the ocean of the night,

taking my longing in your thin beak,

streaking through the purple shade of sky

with a tail like a midnight rainbow.

You sing your subtle siren seductions,

your sweet songs of love and blood,

passion, enlightenment, and intrigue,

and your fragile beauty now escapes me,

but I know it rivals wildflowers and gods.