PHOTO PROMPT © Liz Young
The ghost on the bench sighed. Of course, no one heard. She gazed at her tombstone, where the chiseled words had worn off and the stone tipped to one side.
Her eyes wandered to her beloved garden, and in memory she saw it as it had been two hundred years before. Clean, full of color and joy, scenting the air three seasons of the year and resting in the winter.
No one tended it now. All that remained were brittle branches and weed-choked walkways.
Rising from the bench, she floated above her tombstone, dissolving into nothing.