My Brother’s Ghost

They buried my brother on a cold, wet Thursday in March. The kind of day that feels like the sky is grieving too. He was only ten. I was twelve.

After the funeral, our house fell into silence, the kind that thickens over time, like dust on shelves no one wants to touch. My parents stopped speaking in full sentences. I stopped going into his room. His toys sat frozen mid-adventure—Lego men trapped in battle, a half-drawn dinosaur on his sketchpad, a red balloon deflated in the corner.

And then came May.

It started with the window.

One night, I walked past his room and saw the curtain fluttering. The window was open. My parents never opened it after he passed. I closed it, locked it, and blamed the wind.

The next night, the same thing.

Then came the sounds.

Scratching. Soft thuds. A plastic toy rolling across the floor. I told myself it was just my imagination. I was grieving. Kids imagine things. That’s what they say, right?

But one night, I heard it.

“Eli?”

My name. In his voice.

I froze. My heart slammed against my ribs. I crept to the door of his room. It was open. I hadn’t opened it.

Inside, the nightlight was glowing. The one shaped like a rocket ship—his favorite. It hadn’t worked since March.

“Eli?” he whispered again.

This time I stepped in.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed. Same pajamas he was buried in—blue with little white stars. His eyes looked too big for his face, just like they used to when he was scared of thunderstorms.

“You came back,” I said, not really knowing what I meant.

He nodded. “But I don’t have long.”

I stood there, afraid to move. Afraid that if I blinked, he’d vanish.

“Why did you come back?”

He looked around the room like he was memorizing it. “I forgot something.”

I didn’t ask what.

He reached under the pillow and pulled out a small, worn-out stuffed rabbit—Mr. Wiggles. He hadn’t gone anywhere without it. I thought it had been buried with him, but apparently not.

“I need him,” he said simply.

I took a step forward. “Are you... okay? Wherever you are?”

He smiled, soft and sad. “It’s quiet. But not scary.”

The wind stirred again, and the curtain lifted. He stood up, rabbit in hand, and walked toward the window. He looked back once.

“Tell Mom and Dad I’m okay. But don’t tell them I was here. They won’t believe you.”

And then he was gone.

Just like that.

The nightlight went dark.

I stood in his room for a long time, listening. Nothing but the hum of the house.

The next morning, I told my parents I wanted to clean up his room. They didn’t stop me. I folded his clothes, put the Lego figures in a box, and found an old photo of the two of us at the park—him on my shoulders, laughing. I put it on his desk.

I didn’t tell them what happened. Not the window, not the voice, not the rabbit. I kept it tucked inside like a secret seed.

But sometimes at night, when the wind picks up and the shadows stretch long, I sit by the door of his room and listen.

Just in case he ever forgets something again.

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story shohel rana

love you all

love you all

love you all

love you all