What If Ghosts Spoke Morse Code?

She stood there longer than necessary,
Hands already clean,
Palms still open under a faucet
That wouldn’t quite close.

Drip.
*Pause*
Drip-drip.

Not random;
It felt like hesitation.

She tilted her head,
Like you do when a sentence almost makes sense.

What if ghosts got downgraded to small noises?
Background inconveniences,
Plumbing quirks,
Things you learn to ignore?

What if they were still trying?
Compressing entire histories
Into taps and breaks and patterns
That we don’t bother to decode anymore?

Drip.
…Drip.
Drip.

A language made of waiting.

She thought about how everyone is talking all the time now.
Notifications stacking like static,
Voices overlapping.
Meaning getting thinner with every swipe.

And still, nothing feels said.

Maybe ghosts didn’t disappear.
Maybe they adapted, quieter.
More patient than us.

Maybe they learned that to be heard now,
You have to be almost nothing.

The sink clicked again, softer this time.
Or maybe she just stopped listening so hard.

She dried her hands and walked out, wondering how many messages she’s already missed
because they didn’t demand her attention.