The ghost’s breath frosted the window, even though it was thirty degrees outside. “It’s summer,” the girl said. “You shouldn’t be here.” But the ghost only floated across the room, from the oak four-poster to the American Colonial dollhouse, filled with hand-carved furniture. “Well, if you’re going to stay, would you like to have a tea party? Or maybe we could read a story?”
The ghost didn’t answer, instead stopping, and staring out the window. “I could just open it? Is that what you want? To go outside?”
An invisible finger scratched the words “not just yet” in the frost.