The Ghost of You Lingers in These Walls

The light in the hallway flickers at 11:37 PM. Every night.

That was always when you'd come home.

I stopped changing the bulb months ago. Let it dance and sputter like it's trying to tell me something. The electrician said there's no short circuit, no faulty wiring. Just a bulb that refuses to die properly.

Like my memory of you.

Your shampoo still scents the shower drain. I catch it sometimes when steam rises, and for one breath I'm back in that moment—your hands pulling me under the hot water, laughing against my mouth as the world dissolved around us. Then the water runs cold.

The house fights to keep you. The cabinet door you broke when we argued still won't latch. The dent your elbow left in the drywall stays stubbornly unfaded. Even the damn coffee maker only brews half-pots now, like it's waiting for you to finish what it started.

Last week, I found your shadow burned into the hardwood where your chair used to sit. The sun had bleached everything around it, leaving your absence darker than the rest.

The realtor says I should repaint before putting it on the market.

But I can't.

Some ghosts won't be covered over.

Possible Twists:
1. **The house *does* remember** – Lights flicker when your favorite song plays. The bedroom door sticks unless opened *just* the way you used to shoulder-check it.
2. **They’re not gone—just gone from *you*** – A neighbor casually mentions seeing you at the grocery store, and the walls suddenly feel too thin.
3. **A reveal of why they left** – The narrator finds a note tucked behind the coffee beans: *"I couldn’t keep pretending this was enough."*