Part 2
It is present day in New Orleans, the year 2022. I am only a ghost now, a shadow from the past, lingering in the house where I once lived. The home still carries its unique charm, though I've heard someone has bought it—redoing the rooms, repairing the walls, keeping much of its architecture intact while stripping away mold, popcorn ceilings, and decay.
I wander the halls, my footsteps silent, and peer through the windows. Outside, the world is unrecognizable: trees, grass, flowers, and the neighborhood itself look so different compared to when I was alive. I wonder where my little brother Arthur and my parents ended up—whether they remained here in our hometown or drifted elsewhere in the state. I know I am fifteen years old, yet here in the present I am both very old and still young. Ironic, isn't it?
The family who bought this house has already begun moving in. I explore the rooms and find boxes stacked in corners, belongings tucked inside. To my surprise, they have kept some of mine and my family's valuables, preserving fragments of our history.
It is spring, March 5th. Morning light pours through the windows; birds chirp, and the house feels alive again. As I drift through the rooms, I see photographs of myself, Arthur, and our parents. I miss them dearly, yet it comforts me to know that pieces of our story remain here. The new family seems to be intent on keeping the home's authenticity, even as they replace appliances and repair the floors. I want to leave a good atmosphere for them, to welcome them without harm.
By the afternoon, they arrived. I watch from the upstairs window as an unfamiliar automobile pulls into the drive—large enough to carry things too heavy for human hands alone. They unload boxes, carry them inside, and return for more. At one point, the mother glances up and sees my shadow in the window. I slip away quickly, and she dismisses it as if nothing happened.
Among them is an eighteen‑year‑old girl and her ten‑year‑old brother. Their father shuts the door behind him, and I linger nearby, studying them. Few people choose to live in homes this old, with architecture you rarely see anymore. It feels thoughtful, almost reverent, that they would buy this house and bring it back to life.
Evening falls. The children explore every corner, uncertain whether they like the house or not. I cannot blame them—after all, their parents have chosen to live in a place haunted by memory. They gather for supper, settling in for their first night.
Later, I drift upstairs to their rooms, letting them know they are not alone. When they enter, confusion spreads across their faces. Their belongings have shifted, moved from where they left them.
"Mom... Dad!" they call.
"Yes?" comes the reply.
"Did one of you move my things around?"
"No, I didn't," their parents answered.
Silence follows. The family decides to call it a night. And I, unseen, wait with quiet anticipation. Tomorrow will bring new plans, new discoveries—and I will be here to watch.