Fog. Thick, almost mist, but not quite. Much like a twenty-five year old male, an adult, but not. Dense. Very dense.
Fog, it ebbs and flows through the concrete pillars of the garage, embracing everything. The moon dims, cars slow, the stars vanish. What once dry is now wet. What once damp is dripping. I can hear it running down the lamppost, watch it ripple in the light, hear the drips fall to the street. Feel it slip through my fingers.
Fog, it's cotton in my ears, cotton in my eyes, it teases my noise, fills my lungs, and weighs heavy on my chest. It visits through my windows and fills the room. It's cold.
An apparition, it is. One that tastes wonderful in hot tea, with milk and honey, wearing warm fuzzy slippers.
The Ghost of Lynn... likes jazz.