We’ve had it wrong all these years. You don’t linger as a restless spirit after your death because of some unfinished business or emotion you can’t let go of; you’re forced to remain behind because someone else can’t let go. It’s their grief or anger or fear that holds you, not yours, and you are helpless to change anything. You’ve no voice with which to speak, no hands with which to touch, no way to show them the purgatory they bind you to. You are merely silent witness to a world no longer yours. You ache when they reach for the bottle but it’s a distant ache, just the memory of pain and the hollowness of loss. No, we’ve been wrong to think we’re the ones being haunted; it’s we who keep the ghosts here and mock them with the past they long to abandon.