Close your eyes, he said, and something stroked my cheek, something like a needle in silk. It’s a butterfly kiss, he said. Lashes on skin. I kept my eyes closed longer still. The only way of finding my way was by touch.

Now, when I see butterflies pinioned behind glass, their wings luminous, I want to wreck the display. Ghosts have no right to be so beautiful.

Amy Allison is a writer living in California.