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My father’s footsteps ringing distant from the hall was my lullaby when I was younger. In the dead of night, when my back was turned to the door, I would hear the familiar padding of his white and gray socks colliding with the hardwood floor outside my bedroom. The door would open, and a thin cascade of golden light streaming from where he’d come would land across my bed. The sound of his steps would become softer now, muffled by the plush white carpeting settled along the ground. And upon my forehead, his hand would gently push my bangs away, and his cold lips would press tenderly to my skin.
He had always had poor circulation, and in the hot summer evenings I spent holed up in my covers, it was rather nice to have his soft skin on mine, cold and forgiving. At times, I would turn my head to face him. My sleepy gaze would meet his, and in the darkness, his pearl teeth would shine in a warm smile. And I would smile in return. It was always a silent exchange when I awoke to one of his visits, usually ended by a wave of my hand and the fading of his loving grin.
I couldn’t understand why, at fourteen years old, his nightly visits ceased. Upon asking my mother about this, she turned to me, gaze softened and lips parted just enough to emit tender words.
“Well,” she stated softly, “As you get older.. you see ghosts less and less.”
Credit To – Rusty