It was as if Margaret was still here.
After all those years, her presence could still be felt everywhere – in the house and in the garden, in the river and in the air. But most strongly, in his paintings.
Everyday, he sat in front of his easel with a meticulous and passionate dedication, to create another painting of her.
I never imagined that ghosts could be more charming than a living, breathing human being. Yet here we were – me, a forgotten shadow behind him and Margaret, his sun, his fellow artist, his muse. His everything.
A flash fiction story originally written for and published on The Story Seed.