the future's unwritten [the past is a corridor]

My name is New. And I'm a ghost.

I've been this way for about sixteen years now. But for most of that time, I've been hanging out outside a cemetery with some other ghosts. Most of us don't remember anything from our lives as living beings, and so we did mostly nothing. Sometimes we would listen to the stories of those who do remember their lives, the ones who are waiting for someone to remember them.

Most recently, however, I suddenly woke up one morning in the middle of the city, right outside this big house. I had no idea why or how, but I have no idea how to go back to my old place anyway, so I decided to stick around.

After a few days of wandering around the property, I found out that this enormous house is owned by a businessman named Off, and he lives here with his teenage son, Mix. There are also workers here such as guards, gardeners, cleaners, and the housekeepers.

Every morning, a man named Gun would come to the house with a clipboard on his hand. He has glasses over his eyes and wears long sleeves, black pants, and black shoes. Most of the time, I see him panicking while walking into the house, but he takes a minute to collect himself outside the door. He knows the password, so he would just let himself in, and wait for Off to come down.

Once Off is finished getting dressed for work, Gun would give him a rundown of his tasks for today, speaking words that oddly seemed familiar in rapid succession. Off would simply nod, make his way to the breakfast table, and eat his meal. A few minutes later, Mix would also come down from his room wearing his school uniform. (I often wonder if the scowl thrown towards his father is a part of it.)

Gun would make his way over to him and flip to the next page in the clipboard. He would ask him if he's done the following assignments on the list, and most of the time, he's done all of them. Off would invite him for breakfast, and he would take the invitation, but take a seat by the far end of the table. These two would silently eat their meal, and I could tell that Off always wants to start a conversation with his son, but doesn't know where to start.

One day, an unlikely visitor appeared sitting on one branch from the tree outside the gate. No, the visitor wasn't for the people living inside the house. The visitor was for me. Well, technically, I'm the only one who could see him, so I highly doubt that whoever sent him here was counting on him talking to the living.

"Hey," the man called out to me on that day, and I only looked at him once and ignored him. I thought he was calling out to someone else. I'm a ghost. Nobody's going to call for me anytime soon.

But he did. He was calling out to me. And he was a ghost.

"Sorry, I didn't know you were a ghost," I told him later that day, bowing my head in apology.

"Do I look alive? Is that a compliment?" he asked me sarcastically. "I've been calling out for you all day."

"Well, I'm sorry. How'd you even know I was a ghost?" I asked, climbing up to sit on the fence.

"I watched you for a bit before deciding to call out. You were either being ignored by everyone in the world or you were a ghost."

"Nice. So, what's your name and why are you here?"

"Why are you here?"

"Can you please spare me the attitude? What's your name?" I looked at him with an eyebrow raised, hoping that he got that as a warning to not give me any more sarcastic questions.

"Tay," he answered. "I don't know how I ended up here. I woke up and suddenly I was here."

"And where were you before you were here?"