Art, Reaching....................................................Reyna Sanchez ’22

starts to glow, turning its head and rising a foot off the ground. Lisa takes the Swiss Army Knife from her bag—shoved between her car keys and old movie tickets—and makes a vaguely threatening gesture at the ghost. Unfazed, the ghost doesn’t reply. It moves the curtains and floats to the window. Lisa can almost hear it sigh, can see the outline of a paw cradled against the glass.

She tightens her grip on the knife.

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Reaching , Reyna Sanchez ’22, digital

“Why are you still here?”

The air gets heavy, dense. The room grows dimmer, darker, and Lisa’s confidence shakes.

What would her Mom think, seeing her now? Trembling in the face of a peaceful spirit, threatening it with a knife.

“I’m sorry,” Lisa says. “That was rude.”

The ghost glows brighter. It makes a purring noise, jumping off the windowsill. The room sparkles in the light.

Lisa’s lips quirk at the corners; she tucks the knife back into her bag. “Hi,” she says again. The ghost— The cat comes forward, and she scratches it behind the ears. “You’re not meant to be here, buddy.”

Petulant, the cat meows. It paws at her bag, climbing up her leg.

“What are you looking for?” Lisa says, taking the bag off her shoulder.

It tumbles to the floor, falling open. The cat claws at a granola bar, ripping open the packaging and munching through it.

Lisa is left to watch. She collects her things—besides the food—and starts counting, making sure it’s all in order. Her wallet, her phone, her keys. The polaroid pictures from the movies last week, the twenty-dollar bill she was given for popcorn.

She looks back at the cat, content with its crackers and dried fruit. The ghost starts to glow, then it fades, then it disappears as though it was never there, leaving a legacy of crumbs on the carpet.

A small hole digs itself in Lisa’s chest. Her flashlight, at this moment, chooses to flicker back on. She grabs her keys, her bag, and starts to leave. She can’t stay here. The door slams behind her, and her hands tremble on the wheel. She grabs the photo strip—her friends all making silly faces at the camera. Something pangs in her gut. They can’t stay, her mother had explained. The ghosts. They have to move on. They can’t make new memories here, not like us.