The Crying Ghost: A Story of Sorrow and Solitude

She was a ghost, a spirit, a phantom. She had no body, no voice, no presence. She was invisible, intangible, inaudible. She was alone, forgotten, ignored.

She had been a girl, a daughter, a sister. She had had a family, a home, a life. She had been happy, loved, cherished. She had died, tragically, unexpectedly.

She had not moved on, accepted, or let go. She had stayed behind, attached, or clinging. She had haunted the place where she had lived, where she had died, where she had loved.

She wore a translucent cloak, a shroud, a veil. It was her only possession, her only comfort, her only protection. It hid her from the world, from the pain, from the truth.

She cried every night, every day, every hour. She cried for her loss, for her grief, for her loneliness. She cried silently, softly, endlessly.

She was a crying ghost. She was sad. She was broken.