The Woman Who Waters the Ghosts

The Woman Who Waters the Ghosts

My watering can is old and leaks. It makes a dull, rhythmic thud on the pavement as I walk, but I don’t mind. In the golden evening light the Gemeindebau looks almost beautiful, the way old things sometimes do when the sun is kind.

I don’t look up at the third or fourth floors anymore. The people up there are loud and restless. They smell of burnt food and hurry. They rush past me like I’m part of the wall. I prefer the ground floor.

I stop at 4B. The nameplate has been empty for eleven years.

You always complained about the petunias, Herr Kolar, I think as I tilt the can. But you watered them when you thought no one was watching. I saw you.

The water sinks into the dry soil with a grateful sound. I watch it darken the earth.

You liked the deep purple ones. The red were only for show.

I move to the next window. The Müllers lived here. They fought every evening at half past six like clockwork. Then one Tuesday the shouting simply stopped. No moving van. No goodbye.

Sometimes I think the living are the ones who disappear.

I pour the water slowly. My knuckles are swollen and ugly, but my hands still know exactly how much each box needs. Above me, doors slam and televisions blare. I don’t envy them. They are already halfway gone.

I reach the corner window. The last light turns the dusty glass into a mirror. For a moment I see a woman standing inside, holding the curtain, looking out at the street with calm curiosity.

Is that me? I wonder. Or is that who I will become?

The image vanishes as the light shifts.

I stand there a long time, the watering can heavy in my hand. The courtyard is quiet except for the soft dripping of water. I press my palm against the cool glass.

One day I won’t go back upstairs either, I think. I’ll just stay down here with the ones who never left. At least they don’t pretend.

I whisper goodnight to the windows and walk slowly to my own door. The smell of wet earth stays on my skin like the only honest thing left in this city.

The living world continues its noisy, restless dance above me.

I don’t envy it.

I have better company down here.