"I... I have no idea what you're talking about," said the Father.
The Ghost sat down on the armrest of a nearby chair and eyed the Father, affectionately yet distant.
"Consider this. These people," the Ghost gestured vaguely towards the milling folks of the corridor, "are they alive to you?"
"Of... of course they... are! They're very much... alive, breathing and walking and..."
The Father displayed a intricate show of emotions, running to and fro in his face. Anger, desperation - and downright bereavement.
"No, I mean... Not if they breathe, not if they walk... But is there life?"
"What more is there to life, than... walking and talking?"
The Ghost smiled briefly.
"Listen to yourself. Is life not more than the mere animation of your body? Does that make a puppet, in the hands of a puppeteer, a living being? Does a car, or a train, live? They breathe and walk and talk, in their own way. Yet are they alive?"
The Father said nothing, stared gloomily into the flickering, ethereal face of the Ghost.
The Ghost stood up, walked casually until he stood with his nose bare inches from the Father's eyebrows.
"Am I alive to you? I, a ghost of the future, a vision of the past of the moment? Think, man. Think... dad."
The Father looked up, and recognition flashed in his face, lit his soul with emotion. The gloom retreated, and he opened his mouth to speak. But the shape of the Ghost was gone - not more than a reflection, a burning image on the retina. The Father looked down, shook his head, and cried a little.
This is a piece I wrote just over five minutes the other day. I use it as a bit of a style guide to the rest of the story, or at least that's what I think it is. I did this partly because I was aching to get started a little on this short story, and partly because I wanted to figure out a couple of kinks in my synopsis. I think I've got most of it cleared out by now, so I should be able to finish the synopsis fairly soon.
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