Nathan woke one morning–long before he was allowed to get out of bed–to the sight of a parade of ghosts marching through his tiny bedroom. They emerged noiselessly from one wall, gliding in a straight line, their ethereal forms vanishing as they passed through his closed door and into the hall. 

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Nathan blinked, rubbed his eyes, and sat up, his quilt bunched in his lap. They weren’t scary, not like the ghosts in the movies his cousins whispered about. These were quiet, almost regal, their translucent bodies shimmering faintly in the dim light of his bedside lamp.

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There were little bristly-haired men draped in cloth, all manner of men and women clutching rosaries, tribespeople adorned with face paint and clothes that were barely clothes, soldiers in faded uniforms, farmers with wide-brimmed hats and tools still slung over their shoulders, children with sunken eyes or vomit-stained shirts, and even figures so ancient their garments seemed woven from the mists of time itself. 

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A woman with a great poof of white hair caught his gaze. She paused for just a second and smiled, a kind smile that reminded him of his grandmother. Then she was gone, carried forward by the steady rhythm of the procession.

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Nathan stayed frozen, wide-eyed, until the last ghost vanished through the door. He wasn’t scared. Not exactly. Since his dad had left, his mother had become a tangle of rules and worry, so Nathan had learned to go with the flow and let things happen. 

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Which was better than always fighting. 

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He laid back down and stared at the ceiling until his eyelids grew heavy again.

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After the first parade, the ghostly ensembles became a part of his life. They never appeared anywhere else in the house, only his bedroom. 

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As Nathan grew older, he could discern no patterns to the nightly visitors. They came at unpredictable hours, sometimes ignoring him completely, their gazes fixed on some distant, unknowable destination. Other times, one or two would glance his way, their eyes filled with something he couldn’t quite name. Curiosity, maybe, or confusion. Like seeing something familiar yet distant–the way a photograph of a long-lost friend could make you feel both comforted and unsettled at the same time.

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Sometimes, the whiteboard his mother had hung on the wall would crash to the floor, its magnets scattered. Or his posters would slide from their sticky putty and curl around themselves like a rubber band snapping back into shape. The noise of these things would wake him and he'd sigh, watching the relentless parade of once-humans marching past like shadows across a window. 

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Once, on his twelfth birthday, a little ghost boy with a cap and suspenders broke away from the line. The boy sat on the edge of Nathan’s bed, his translucent form sinking the mattress slightly, as though he had weight, even though Nathan could see through the kid's dirty white shirt.

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“Where do you go?” Nathan whispered.

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The ghost boy tilted his head and Nathan waited for the answer, but after a moment, the boy simply got up and back into the line. 

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One time, he asked his mother if she’d ever seen anything weird in the house. 

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“Why?” she snapped, suddenly on edge. “Did your father put something in here? A camera? Do I have to call the police?"

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Nathan never asked her again. 

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It wasn't until Nathan left for college that he realized how much he'd come to...not enjoy the parades exactly–but count on them. His mother had grown increasingly erratic and spent long hours hunched over her phone, scrolling endlessly through colorful photos of his father's new life with his new family (Nathan had let her sign into his account so his father couldn't block her. Again). 

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He woke one night with a start, the anxiety in his guts so charged it felt like a thousand gnawing, biting insects. He sat up, scanning the foot of his bed for the familiar flickers of once-life. 

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But there was only his roommate, splayed out like an X across his bed, sheets on the floor. 

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Nathan tried to fall back asleep, his insides twisting, missing the comfort of his ghostly friends. 

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His mother became a puzzle of worries and restless energy, her moods swinging between brittle laughter and tearful silences. Even as her health faltered, she waved off his concern with brisk assurances and an almost childlike belief that things would eventually go back to normal. 

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She died of cardiac arrest when she was 58 years old. Nathan had warned her about going off her blood pressure medication but she insisted she was fine. She'd taken up yoga, after all. 

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After the funeral, Nathan returned to the house alone to pack what was left.

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On his last night in his childhood home, Nathan lay in his bed, staring at the familiar cracks in the ceiling. As if summoned by his thoughts, the parade appeared. The ghosts marched silently, their figures passing easily through the moving boxes piled up along the wall. He sat up to watch them, a strange, fragile hope blooming in his chest.

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He got out of bed and followed, easing the door open, stepping barefoot into the hall.

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But they were already gone.

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They always were.