God! An entity rambling at the interface of orbits. Headlong, but disoriented. Then a strangest detail struck me—it trailed on invisible tracks. Glided. It had no obvious legs.
I peered ahead. No feet, as a matter of fact. A ghost? Aw, with an arm dangling. It hung from a rag, its contours fuzzy.
I point to the venue where I encountered the mystery girl. “Ladies, this child roamed the exotic fruit section, now ballet dancing, forlorn, next playing guardian of the stall—look, right there! I swear, she interacted with me.”
“Why didn’t you refer the lost child to reception?” the plain clerk says.
Ghost touch. Not on your screen, but on your skin. While writing a scene, I gatecrashed my deceased aunt’s soul and summoned a spooky chill from an unworldly north pole.
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