The ghost lived in a tiny home buried far back in the infrequently tended-to area of the cemetery, and he was comfortable there.
So much of the previous life was taken up by interacting with people that he (do I need to keep gendering myself? “he” wondered) wondered if the next life (it felt like “afterlife” prioritized the life lived corporally on Earth) could be one it spent in solitude.
With no corporeal form, it was more easily able to entertain a fantasy it’d once cultivated about living in a storage unit (most storage units being bigger that tiny homes, actually, but there weren’t very many YouTube videos on how to build your own storage unit, plus, assuming the laws had changed significantly in the 22 years since he’d/it’d been dead, occupying one of those orange, ribbed Public Storage 10 x 12 was illegal, though the units were typically larger than most tiny homes)
when the rent prices in Denver started to get over $1500 for a one-bedroom; it, and the other folks without houses spoke about making enough money to have each of them rent out one of the units,
(they were looking at that one in the Ballpark neighborhood on Wewatta, next to the freeway, a few blocks from Coors Field; the idea was that they’d each reach out to someone housed, or someone who looks housed, to rent out one of the units — Tye Dye Ballerina joked that the only things they should store there were shopping carts — )
before they all became ghosts.
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