Philip blinked. “Is that a proper haunting?”
She pointed. In the corner booth sat a large man in a damp trench coat, spooning soup into his mouth with the mechanical sadness of someone whose wife had just left him. His name was Frank. Philip knew this because Frank came every night and wept softly into his minestrone. philip mainlander
Frank looked at the bowl. Then at the empty seat. Then back at the bowl. His spoon paused. A small, confused crease formed between his brows. Philip blinked
And then—miraculously—Frank smiled. Just a tiny, crooked thing. “Yeah,” he whispered to the air. “It always is.” crooked thing. “Yeah