She loved him. He killed her.
Worse, he got away scot-free.
Every year on the anniversary of her death, her spirit returns to plague her killer. But every year she stops short, unable to face the man she’d so loved in life. Without fail, she turns away.
Instead she winds up visiting me, ethereal, weeping. Saying it’s unfair, how she loved him and how betrayed she feels...
And every year I’m there, listening, wishing I could hold her, wishing she had a body to hold.
I’ll always be there for her.
Because I loved her, and she died on me.