The boy died, he’s not alive
anymore.
He doesn’t even have a name,
he might have had one, but he doesn’t remember it anymore.
The only thing he’s certain
about, is that he died, he died and nobody even noticed.
He had never been popular, he
only had one friend, his dog, or cat, he couldn’t even remember his very dear
friend.
The boy simply wandered around
the city, invisible to the naked eye, looking for something, he didn’t know
what it was, but he was really desperate about finding that thing that had been
looking for a very long time.
Had it been days? Years? Maybe
centuries?
He wasn’t sure, he wasn’t sure
about anything.
He cried every night, right
before falling asleep, he could sleep anywhere he wanted, in a humble house, in
a store, even in a five star hotel, but he always chose that old abandoned
house on the top of a hill, he felt that house was his, the house was the only
thing he believed he owned.
He had heard stories that “ghosts”
usually stay in the living realm because they did not achieve and objective in
life, the thing is, he can’t remember anything about the time he was alive.
But that house, there was
something about that old house from the top of the hill.
Maybe he had lived there when
he could breathe? Maybe he had died in there?
For the meaning time, he could
only wait, wait for an angel, wait for death, a ghostbuster, he didn’t care, he
just wanted to talk to someone.
