The Sugar-Coated Ghost of April

I have always felt like a misplaced artifact in this city—a porcelain doll left behind in a concrete warehouse. The world moves with the cold precision of clockwork, but I move to the rhythm of falling petals and fading memories.
He found me here, under these weeping cherries that smell of old letters and missed opportunities. He didn't speak at first; he simply handed me this swirl of sugar—a lollipop colored like a child’s dream from another century. The sweetness is almost violent against the bitterness I have carried in my throat for years.
I look into his eyes and see not just a man, but an invitation to be known without being judged. My pink blouse clings softly to skin that has forgotten how it feels to be truly touched by sunlight or affection. There is something dangerously intimate about the way he watches me—a slow unraveling of my defenses.
As I hold this candy like a sacred relic, I realize we are both ghosts haunting our own lives. But in his presence, the air grows warm; the urban noise softens into a lullaby. He reaches out to brush a petal from my shoulder, and for one suspended moment, time stops ticking. The city is gone. There is only this sweetness on my tongue and the terrifyingly beautiful possibility that I might finally be coming home.

Editor: Antique Box