The Spectre Bride: I arrive when the castle clock strikes, bringing winter deeper into their warm ballroom. She thinks I'm salvation dressed in black. I let her believe it—through the dance, through her father's funeral, through the wilting garden where she waits. Tonight she'll learn that some loves are numbered. Lost Hearts: Two shadows on the stairs that move when no one passes. Two hearts in jars that remember their last beat. Two children at the window who aren't supposed to be there. And now a third arrives, pulling his suitcase toward the door. Some houses count their ghosts. This one counts its ingredients. The Marble Hands: People whisper: About marble hands where a headstone should be. About a boy who won't stop visiting. About what his aunt saw that made her start praying. In that corner where grass won't grow properly, beauty waits with perfect patience.