Ghost Light Bloom

The city exhales a cold breath, doesn’t it? Another night slick with rain and regret. I used to chase the static between buildings, the ghost light of forgotten signals.
He found me sketching that once – said the lines reminded him of circuitry, of something broken being mended. Funny… he noticed.
His hands weren't meant for a place like this; too warm, too steady as they held my charcoal. He traced the phantom limbs of towers on the page then looked at *me*, and it felt like a current ran through those rusted wires in my chest.
Now, I find myself lingering near his workshop, drawn to the flicker behind closed curtains. A foolish hope blooms – that maybe, just maybe, he'll see me again. That warmth isn’t a ghost story.

Editor: Rusty Cog