The ghosts in this city wish they could fade away. They try to sneak around corners, but the corners are gone, replaced by glass and chrome facades – the ghosts are shattered on the mirrored surfaces, the pieces flattening out on walls and slipping into oily pools on the concrete. The ghosts, once reassembled, congregate in the tiny pockets of old city that remain, confused by the constant change.

If I was a ghost, I’d seep into the concrete, through the quiet and cool into the thickness below, where the bones of the city lay, transected by water pipes and underground car parks. I’d wait, quiet and still, slipping my pellucid hands up through the layers to snare freshly made ghosts – their confusion makes them easy targets – and dragging them down to rest with me. We would wait, bolstered by time, until the glass becomes bones and the city becomes quiet.


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