I came home later than usual that night and walked right into that now familiar scent. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, a sense of comfort washing over me before the prickly, slightly nauseating feeling of unease set in.

I waited for the sensation of being watched to hit, but after a few minutes, I felt nothing. I made my way to the balcony off my bedroom, putting away my things and grabbing some tea and a blanket on the way.

I sat down with my legs curled under me and snuggled under the blanket. With the mug clasped tightly between both hands, I stared off into the fog. It was exceptionally thick, so much so I could barely see past my balcony, and definitely couldn’t see the water or trees below.

I didn’t think about anything while I was out there, my mind pleasantly and surprisingly clear and free. I reveled in the feeling, letting all the stress and worry that had taken up residence in my body drift away. I finished my tea, set the mug down, and curled up against one of the pillows, half lying down, just enjoying the cold, fresh air around me.

Sometime later I startled awake. I stretched, looking out into the night sky, wondering what had woken me up, knowing I hadn’t dreamed.

Through the mist, I began to see a shape take form. I rubbed at my eyes, shook my head, and then looked back as though the movement would clear my eyes or change what I was seeing, but there standing before me was a man.

He was almost completely opaque, but not fully solid. His back was turned to me, his posture straight with an innate confidence radiating off him in waves. I could tell by his clothing he was not of this time.

Ghost. You are looking at a ghost.

My brain screamed these words and I shook my head, refusing to believe what was right in front of my eyes, what my mind was already trying to process. A part of me wanted to run, to slam the doors to the balcony and leave the house as quickly as possible.

I couldn’t, though. I was rooted to the spot. I should have been terrified, my heart should have been pounding through my chest, but I wasn’t.

All the weird occurrences in the house over the last several months began to play out in my mind, ending with my call-out to the unknown occupant of the house this morning. When Josie and I had joked about the house being haunted, it might have freaked me out, but I’d never really believed it to be true.

As I continued to stare, I began to question what I was seeing. Maybe I was seeing what I wanted. Maybe my intense loneliness was playing tricks on my eyes, on my mind. That had to be it.

I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until a strangled gasp escaped my lips, the heat from my breath creating a steamy trail in the frigid air. The sound I made must have been louder than I realized, as the form began to shimmer and move.

He stiffened as if startled and began to turn. I stood up clumsily, grasping at the arms of the chair to keep myself from stumbling. My mind willed me to move but my body was utterly unwilling to comply.

Something in me wanted to see him, see his face, to finally know who I had been sharing this space with. As he turned I took a sudden, involuntary step back and the air pushed out of my lungs in an audible whoosh. This was most definitely not a hallucination or my imagination taking over. There was an actual ghost standing in front of me.

He’s so much more attractive than his picture or how he looked in my dreams.

That thought was the first thing that popped in my head. Archer, my mind whispered, the name never passing my lips.

He was wearing a suit that looked like it was from the late 1800s, maybe early 1900s, but I wasn’t an expert. A long suit coat, trousers with a crisp crease in them, a matching vest, shirt and tie with a chain attached to a pocket watch.

It was too dark and foggy to tell the color or any other details. My eyes drifted back up to his face, all of his features arranged into a fashion far too familiar for comfort. He was clean-shaven, had a slim, angular nose, a tiny cleft in his chin, and full lips in proportion with the rest of his features.

His hair looked to be dark brown, trimmed short on the sides, a bit longer on the top, but not quite reaching his ears. There was a slightly off-center part, and it was slicked back nicely. It was a pretty stylish cut and it was slightly jarring to think it had been popular all those years ago too.

His gaze was what got me. It wasn’t the vacant or distant look I had expected. He really saw me, met my look, and his eyes instantly filled with warmth and something that looked a lot like affection. A slight smile touched his lips.

My own mouth dropped open in shock, and I was still stuck where I was, unable to move, unable to even look away. His mouth broke into a full smile at my reaction, amusement now dancing in his eyes, and I smiled back in spite of myself.

Before I knew it, his form was shimmering again, moving closer to me. The icy current of panic flooded my veins, a scream got stuck in my throat, and my brain was telling my body to run, but I was paralyzed, rooted to the spot.

Within seconds he was right in front of me, mere inches away. I shivered at his proximity. But looking into his eyes, I could see uncertainty and shyness there, nothing evil, no ill intent. The rush of the panic I was feeling seconds before receded.

Now that he was closer I could see him in more detail by the porch light. His hair was dark, dark brown, almost black, but with hints of lighter brown throughout. He had tiny wrinkles next to his eyes and mouth, a sure sign this man had laughed a lot in his short life. For some reason, it calmed me further, tempered my fear.

He was slim but well built. It made me wonder if he had done a lot of labor while alive to give him the muscles he obviously had. Men born during his time didn’t really exercise for vanity or strength, right? It wasn’t like they had a gym on every corner the way they did now.

His suit was obviously well made and well tailored. Just like in my dreams, he was much taller than me, definitely over six feet, which had to be rare for the time. I always pictured men as being shorter at the turn of the century, but there were obviously exceptions.

His eyes were a deep, piercing green rimmed in gray. I had never seen eyes like this before.

Except I had. Every single time I had a dream with him, I looked into those eyes. A wave of familiarity and comfort washed over me. He smiled tentatively and I nodded my head, as though answering a question.

“Well, finally,” he said in a deep, melodic voice.

I was expecting it to be like a whisper on the wind, but I could fully hear him like he was alive and not a figment of a man. I was utterly speechless. I didn’t even know how to respond.

After what seemed like forever, I managed to squeak out, “What do you mean ‘finally’?”

He laughed then, and I smiled at the sound, warming me from within as it settled over my body. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for quite a while. It’s not easy making myself visible.”

His voice hit me then, like a punch in the stomach. I knew that voice, recognized it deep within. This really was the man I had been dreaming about since arriving. I couldn’t believe it.

The face, the smile, the voice. It was all the same.

“So, if you’ve been trying to make yourself visible, if you’ve been the one doing all these things, why now? Why didn’t you just show yourself sooner?” I asked, completely confused and baffled.

“I wanted to see if you were open to the idea at first, if you even believed. I suppose I could have presented myself to you sooner, but I didn’t think it was a wise course to take,” he replied with a shrug of his shoulders.

I shivered and rubbed my arms absentmindedly. He reached out to me, but stopped himself just shy of making contact with my arm.

“You look like you’re freezing cold, we should take this inside.”

“I don’t even know your name, and you’ve been with me this entire time and probably know mine,” I replied, not bothering to respond to his statement.

I needed to hear him say it. I needed the confirmation that he was indeed Archer Breckenridge and I hadn’t imagined everything. He smiled fully again and I was struck by how captivating his smile was.

“My name is Archer, Rosalind,” he stated.

Another chill down my spine, followed quickly by a shiver. He did indeed know my name. What else had he seen and heard since I had moved? Instead of responding, I turned and walked into the house, realizing I was probably being rude.

Wait, how can you be rude to someone who isn’t even living?

I laughed to myself, feeling like I was going crazy. I was having a conversation with a ghost, of course I was going crazy. I guessed my loneliness and the strange things happening around the house had finally taken their toll.

I made my way toward the couch closest to the fireplace. Archer suddenly materialized in front of me and stood in front of the other sofa.

“How do you know my name?” I asked in a much harsher voice than I had intended, realizing how stupid that question was the minute it crossed my lips.

He chuckled, and I swore I could feel the reverberations in the atmosphere around us. “I’ve lived in this place for decades, Rosalind. I’m slightly embarrassed to admit I’ve watched you a little since you arrived.” He looked away from me shyly as he said this. He at least had the decency to appear embarrassed.

While a part of me wanted to say something snarky or sarcastic in return, I realized his admission didn’t bother me nearly as much as it maybe should. I couldn’t think of anything at all to say in response. I just stood there for a moment, trying to process all of this.

“Have a seat, I guess,” I said, waving toward the sofa he stood in front of.

He lowered his body onto it, so it looked like he was sitting, though I guessed he was just hovering.

“Does it take a lot of energy to sit like that?” I asked, my curiosity winning out.

He smiled, a twinkle of humor in his eyes. “No, not really. Not any more than standing or walking takes.”

There were so many questions racing through my head, but leaving just as quickly, too fast for me to grab onto one long enough to formulate the words out loud. I closed my eyes, laid my head on the back of the sofa, and took a deep breath, exhaling a moment later. When I opened my eyes, he was still there, the same smile on his face.

“Is this really happening?”

With that question, he laughed, a rich, deep laugh. “Yes, Rosalind, this is really happening, as difficult as it must be to fathom. I take it you’ve never conversed with a spirit before?”

He sat back on the sofa, as though he were getting comfortable, and threw his right ankle to rest over his left knee.

“No, this would be a first for me. And if we’re going to have a conversation, you might as well call me Ros.”

“If it’s all right with you, I would much rather call you Rosalind.”

“Okay.” I nodded my assent. “Is there another name you go by? A nickname perhaps?”

“Yes, my friends and family often called me Archie when I was alive.”

“Would it be okay if I called you Archer? And when would that have been, exactly? When you were alive? How old are you?” I had a pretty good idea what his answer would be, but again, I was seeking confirmation.

“I’m twenty-eight years old, I suppose.”

I sat quietly, willing him to continue with my eyes. After a moment or two, he must have figured I wasn’t going to ask anything else until he went on.

“I was born in 1878. I died in 1906,” he finished.

“You don’t really sound like what I thought someone from the nineteenth century would sound like,” I observed out loud, more to myself than to him.

As a ghost, he must have been able to hear anything spoken anywhere near him, no matter how quietly it was said. Well, that was my assumption, at least.

“Well, I’m not sure exactly what you were expecting. I think there’s often the misconception we talked much differently during my time, but we didn’t. Perhaps a bit more formally at times.”

“Oh,” I muttered, unable to form any other words.

“I’ve also been observing the inhabitants here for almost a century. I picked up the idioms and manners of speech over the years. It makes me feel more relevant, more alive.”

I was slightly taken aback by this. I’d thought a ghost was a stagnant, unchanging thing, completely stuck in the time he or she lived in when alive. I found I liked the fact he tried to adapt, with his speech at least.

“So, does that mean you’ve stayed current with music and books as well? Actually, can you even read?”

I had so many questions now, it took everything in me to refrain from spitting them all out at once. Archer steepled his fingers together and looked at me as though seriously considering my questions.

“I do get to listen to music, which has made things feel less lonely. As for books, I can move them and manipulate them, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.” Archer chuckled at his joke. “I greatly enjoyed reading while I was alive, but I find it consumes too much energy to try to manipulate the pages to read for any length of time. Each time I’ve tried, I had to give up the endeavor after a few pages.”

“I’m so sorry, Archer. I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t read.”

He nodded, and I swore I saw a flash of sadness in his eyes for a second before it disappeared. “I sometimes consider all the great books I must have missed over the years. Do you know what I’ve found unexpected joy in?”

“No.”

“Films. I have found I really enjoy them. Well, many of them, that is.”

He looked at me with a question in his eyes. I got the feeling he was inviting me to ask more questions. I was stuck processing and taking in what he had just said.

“So, the books around the house were you then?”

“Yes, I remember many passages I loved or had great meaning to me. Those were the books and passages I shared with you.”

Some time must have passed without me saying anything at all. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught him shift. I looked up at him, not sure where to go next and struck silent by the strange energy filling the atmosphere between us.