I Fell in Love with a Ghost

They met every Sunday beneath the old willow tree by the lake.

Aarya had been coming to this lake since childhood, but after her father’s sudden death, she stopped visiting. The pain was too raw. It wasn’t until last autumn—when the silence in her house felt unbearable—that she returned. The trees were painted in golden hues, the lake shimmered under a soft sun, and the willow stood there, timeless and still.

She sat beneath it with her journal open, but her mind blank. Words had stopped coming to her long ago. Just as she was about to leave, a voice startled her.

“You always stop at the same sentence.”

She looked up sharply.

A boy—no, a young man—stood a few feet away. Tall, slender, with soft grey eyes that almost glowed in the shadow of the tree. His black coat fluttered slightly with the breeze, and his smile carried a strange familiarity.

“Do I know you?” she asked.

“No,” he replied. “But I know this tree. It remembers things.”

The way he said it—soft and distant—sent a strange chill through her. Yet, it didn’t frighten her. Instead, she felt… seen.

His name was Ishan. He said he lived nearby in the white house just beyond the woods. He didn’t carry a phone, and when she asked for social media, he simply smiled and said, “I prefer to be found the old-fashioned way.”

She found herself returning to the willow tree every Sunday. And so did he.

They spoke of dreams, books, and lost things. She read her writing aloud; he listened with eyes closed, as though absorbing every word.

But there was something unspoken in him, something quiet and aching. Sometimes he would stare into the water, silent, and when she asked what he was thinking, he would only say, “I hope the tree never forgets me.”

One Sunday, Aarya arrived earlier than usual. A heavy mist blanketed the lake. The tree looked skeletal in the haze. She waited for hours. No Ishan.

Worried, she ventured into the woods, toward the white house he had spoken of.

It stood alone, its paint peeling, the windows fractured. Nature had nearly consumed it. Her heart pounded as she stepped onto the creaking porch. She knocked. No answer.

But the door creaked open on its own.

Inside, dust floated like snowflakes. Furniture lay draped in cobwebs. On an old wooden table near the window, something caught her eye—a leather-bound journal. Her journal. The one she had lost two years ago.

Her breath caught.

Behind her, a whisper: “You shouldn’t be here.”

She spun around.

It was Ishan.

But he looked different—hollow. His skin paler, as if all the color had drained from him. His eyes dimmer, the soft grey now clouded.

“You… live here?” she whispered.

“I used to,” he said. “Until the lake took me.”

The words hit like a slap. Her voice trembled. “What do you mean?”

“I died,” he said softly. “Three years ago. Right there. In the lake.”

Aarya took a step back. “No. That’s not possible. I’ve been talking to you… I’ve touched your hand.”

“I don’t know how it happened,” he said. “At first, I thought I was alive. I waited by the tree. People passed, but no one ever saw me. Until you did.”

She stared at him, lips quivering. “Why me?”

“Because you still believe in things others have forgotten,” he said. “You see the world not just as it is… but as it could be.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I don’t understand. How are you here?”

He looked down. “I think… the tree holds on to memories. Maybe souls too. Maybe I was meant to fade, but I stayed. Because you gave me something to stay for.”

Aarya fell to her knees. The journal slipped from her hand. “I don’t want you to go.”

He knelt beside her, but when he reached out, his hand passed through hers.

“I don’t know how long I have,” he said. “But every moment I get… I want to spend with you. Even if it’s only beneath that tree.”

She returned every Sunday.

They didn’t talk about his death anymore. They read poetry, shared quiet glances, and sometimes just sat in silence. She never questioned the impossible. In those brief hours, she felt more alive than ever.

But time was cruel.

Each week, he grew fainter. One Sunday, she could barely hear his voice. Another, he could no longer sit beside her. The wind passed through him.

“I think the tree is forgetting me,” he whispered one day.

“No,” she sobbed. “Please. Not yet.”

He smiled. “The tree has to let go. But that doesn’t mean you have to.”

He reached out, and this time—just once—she felt the faint warmth of his hand, like sunlight slipping through the fog.

“Remember me,” he said. “Not for how I left… but for how I stayed.”

Then he vanished.

Spring came. The lake thawed. The willow tree bloomed again.

Aarya still visited, every Sunday. She brought her journal and read her stories to the breeze. And sometimes, just sometimes, the willow’s branches would sway… even when there was no wind.

And in that soft, swaying silence, she swore she could hear a whisper:

“You always stop at the same sentence.”