I can't drag my feet from the middle of the road. I should move. I know I should. My brain's aware of the world around me, aware that standing here in the snow like a misplaced mannequin could get me killed. But my body won't listen. Not when I'm staring into the eyes of a ghost. A ghost with skin and breath and a red car.
A ghost with a name. Louise.
We don't move. We just stand like statues carved from two different stones, staring, unsure, like our history pressed pause and refused to hit play again. The snow falls between us, light at first, then heavier, until the air turns gauzy and white. He hasn't changed much. His hair's a little longer, jaw more defined, but those same tired eyes meet mine, full of something unreadable.
A car speeds past us. The driver rolls down his window and yells, "Move it, dumbasses!" Then disappearing into the street noise.
