His days were a gentle rhythm of routine: lukewarm tea, crossword puzzles with ink-stained fingers, and the ever-present hum of the television, a poor substitute for conversation and company. But his favorite pastime, his solace, was the window.
His bedroom window overlooked the asphalt expanse of the parking lot, and beyond, the ribbon of highway that stretched into the horizon. Cars, like tiny, brightly colored beetles, scurried along its surface, a constant, stream of life. Arthur would stand there for hours, his frail hands resting on the sill, his gaze fixed on the distant motion.
"It’s...comforting," he'd murmur to the empty room, "to see it all moving. To know it goes on."
He wasn’t sure what “it” was. Perhaps it was the world, oblivious to his quiet solitude. Perhaps it was the simple, undeniable fact of existence, life itself, a constant pulse against the stillness of his own existence. The headlights, like fleeting fireflies, and the taillights, like ruby tears, were a silent symphony, a reminder that he wasn't entirely alone.
One crisp autumn morning, the rhythm of Arthur's life scratched like an old record. The tea grew cold, the crossword remained unfinished, and the television hummed to an empty room. The cars continued their ceaseless journey along the highway, unaware of the quiet departure that occurred in Apartment 2B.
Days turned into weeks, and the apartment remained untouched. Then, a strange thing began to happen. Residents of the complex, those who returned late at night or left early in the morning, started to notice a faint, translucent figure at the window of Apartment 2B.
It was Arthur, or what remained of him. His spectral form, a wisp of gray against the dim light of the room, stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the highway. The cars continued their ceaseless journey, their headlights cutting through the darkness, their taillights painting streaks of red against the night.
Some residents felt a chill, a whisper of unease. Others, those who had occasionally exchanged a polite nod with Arthur, felt a pang of melancholy, a quiet acknowledgment of the loneliness that had lingered in the apartment long before his passing.
The ghost of Arthur became a fixture, a silent sentinel watching the ebb and flow of life. He remained at his window, a spectral observer, a reminder that even in death, the need for connection, for the comfort of seeing life go on, persisted. And the cars, like tiny, brightly colored beetles, continued their ceaseless journey, a silent testament to the enduring rhythm of existence, a rhythm Arthur, in his own way, still sought to share.
Carolina Dean
Old Guy
