How to Hold A Ghost

How to Hold a Ghost

By Lola Dam

Lena did not believe in ghosts.

Not the rattling chains, hollow-eyed kind. Not the whispering spectres of stories. But there were things in her house that moved when no one was looking. Not loudly—just the subtle shift of air, the scent of something familiar where it shouldn’t be.

And the shirt.

It hung on the back of the bedroom door. Faded navy, soft cotton, frayed at the collar. She hadn’t washed it. She couldn’t. It still held the shape of him—Daniel. The man who hummed while stirring sugar into her tea, who always took up more space in a room than he should have, not with noise, but with warmth.

She’d promised herself she’d give it away. Or at least fold it. But every time her hand reached for it, her fingers paused just above the fabric.

She wasn’t sure what she was waiting for.

It had been seven months. People had stopped asking how she was. The plants he’d cared for were dying one by one, and she didn’t have the heart to learn how to save them.

She didn’t cry anymore. Not really. Just felt the grief as a dense fog pressed low against her chest.

One night, she found herself unable to sleep. She wandered the silent house, barefoot, the floor cool beneath her. In the kitchen, the spoon in the sink reminded her of him. Always one spoon. Never washed immediately. Always a trace of peanut butter or coffee.

She sat at the table and stared at it.

Then, without quite knowing why, she rose, padded back to the bedroom, and took the shirt from the hook.

It was heavier than she remembered. As if it had collected the weight of all the days since he left.

She pressed it to her face. It smelt like laundry detergent and a trace of cologne and something else—something impossible.

She curled into the armchair by the window and wrapped it around her shoulders.

As she sat, a memory surfaced—not a grand one. Just a Tuesday evening. Rain on the windows, her head on his shoulder. The warmth of his chest rising and falling beneath her cheek. Nothing remarkable. And yet, she remembered thinking, Hold onto this.

She never thought it would become a lesson.

So she did what she could.

She wrapped the shirt tighter. Imagined the sound of his laugh. The pressure of his hand on hers.

And for a moment—no longer, not even fully—he was there. Not as a shape. Not as a ghost. Just as a presence.

A stillness that settled around her, familiar and kind.

Her breath slowed. Her eyes closed.

She didn’t fall asleep, not quite. But she drifted.

Later, when the sun began to rise, painting the windows pale gold, Lena stood and folded the shirt gently. She didn’t put it away. But she laid it flat on the bed, smoothing it with both hands.

She still didn’t believe in ghosts.

But she believed in memory.

In fabric.

In breath.

In holding what once held you.