I am ready to rest again and I will try to remember how not to hide. I settle on a bench in the park and I don’t know how it will be different but I watch and I wait.
The people moving through the park are en route to elsewhere and when they see me they all react in a similar manner. They falter and, stepping out onto the grass, they move around me in an arc and they stare.
I run my hand across my face and push my fingers through my hair. I am unsightly to them, a pariah, especially in this park, sitting on a bench in the sunlight. But I sense it is more than this, more than my raggedy clothes, and the dirt and the grime, more than the wear and tear. I sense that, whilst I have been in hiding, I have somehow changed, that I have altered and the people can’t help but look, that they can now see what it is I have become.
Coming here was a mistake. They aren’t passing through anymore. People are now stopping and this is their destination. They sit on benches, settle down on the grass and they stare. And why wouldn’t they? Most of them have probably never seen a ghost before and certainly not in broad daylight.