He's just there, sitting gormlessly at the bare table. He looks at me, eyes empty, gulps and says nothing.
"Look who’s back!" she breezes, fussing around to make him comfortable. A teacup and saucer clatter down. I jump. He doesn't.
He hasn't aged. Ten years and he looks precisely the same.
My fists clench. Offended that he should reappear like this; sickened that he left in the first place.
He is not real. He is an imposter. He is a ghost. I am angry and I am scared.
Her face warns that my urgent questions must wait.