I read a book once, with a character named Alicia. She was the only one who saw the mice that infested her house, because she was the only one who rose early and saw them while she worked in the gauzy violet hours just before the dawn. I know how she feels. No one else seems to notice the ghosts, the memories that penetrate every inch of the house, even more numerous than the mice. Sitting at the table, resting on the sofa. Hovering by the counter, quietly reading the paper. I tell no one about these ghosts because I know that no one would believe me, just like Alicia. She saw them because she got up early. I see them only because I stayed up late at night, made the memories that form these melancholy spirits. They wonder why I frown.They don't see the ghost of a young man sitting in that empty chair, laughing. Laughing with a voice that haunts me wherever I go.