Writing by the glow of an overhead light in a new apartment in a classy (read: expensive) neighborhood. This is more than he'd like to pay for a rented, somewhat small domicile. But the kitchen is copious and the bathroom is basically a small bedroom should he desire to sleep on the floor some night, maybe tonight, he thinks as the drink settles in. With wall to wall carpet, the tile of the bathroom floor may be a welcome coolness, and he keeps this apartment clean, because of her. He'd like to think that he would keep something clean on his own, and maybe now he would, but only because of her tutelage.
He realizes now it is easier to maintain than to pull something back from the brink. To keep something relatively tidy, then polish it, rather than just trying to make a disaster look presentable.
He doesn't know if there is a place for ghosts here. He lives in a new building, probably less than 5 years old. Though it is an old neighborhood it may have previously been undeveloped, rather than paved over.
Ghosts cling to you though, and he feels the specter of the pale-eyed one as he goes about his day. Always watching, sometimes smiling that awkward, watery smile. She lingers digitally in music he dumped unknowingly into his phone, and almost tangibly in the neighborhood she introduced him to. The other ghosts are mere shades, he does not see their markers everyday, but this ghost is present. Though she has no attachment or effect, he knows she is there, and remembers, and he wonders if that would even matter to her. Detached as she was, he hopes it would.