What was a sane person thought when the air was cold enough to make them jitter. As a decent human, Mark sat on the bar chair, holding a mug. He blew a hot chocolate before sipping it. The taste of warm chocolate wrapped him to comfort. However, a ghost mind was different from than usual human. The strange person—that lead Mark to the dining room—grabbed a bowl of ice and their favorite drink, mango juice.

Perhaps, the cold didn't make them feel something, since they were long enough to feel things, and their memories short enough to remember their past life. They were unlike the other members in this mansion. Being an entity that lives with humans felt as weird as it sounded.

The person held their beverages. "I'll be back to the art room," They said. The sleepy pup only hummed in response. Ghost painter, they named themselves, walked around the mahogany table. Step away from the dining room.

Ghost painter placed their drinks as far as possible from their workspace. Learned from the mistakes hundreds of years ago, they spilled milk upon their paintings that took them two weeks to finished. Ghost painter stood in front of their newest piece that was finished, but the never enough feeling that persisted on his work would be their eternity enemies. It needs more details, they mumbled.

They grabbed a paintbrush, blemished every color on their pallet to the canvas. The ghost hands flow creating abstract yet precise shapes. No details were being left.

Ghost painter looked at their right table. Something was missing there. Their sketchbook was supposed to lay beside their guitar miniature. Yesterday I was drawing in the library, it must be there, they remembered.

Ghost painter left their comfort place. Passing by corridor after corridor. Their steps stopped im the third corridor. Melodies enticed their ears. Lured them to follow the sounds, that proved to be from the ballet studio.

A lean figure strode to the right side of the room. The intense melodies gave them moments of power before they hovered in the air. A few seconds and the gravity pulled them again. Their black hair waved to all sides as their body circled, gashed the breeze fiercely tender.

The ghost stood there, watching their performance was causing inevitable admiration. The violin rhythm paced down. Gabrielle, the ballet dancer, synchronized their movement with the melodies. They bent their legs to the floor. And the tones perished with the smiles on their sweat face.

"I can see why you love ballet that much," Ghost painter took a few steps closer.

Gabrielle got up from the floor, drift their attention to the ghost. "As well as I see why you love painting." They said. "Do you dance, Mx. Ghost Pinter?"

A soft chuckles left from the ghost painter's mouth. "A deadman can't dance, Mx. Ballet."

There was a moment of silence. Gabrielle’s eyes wandered through the room, looking for the right words to say. Up till they stared at the ghost again.

"Poems never left their poets by themselves, Mx. Ghost. The poems are still alive even though their writers passed away. The writers live among those verses. And you," they paused, "you still have the chance along with every masterpiece that you painted." A thin curved up lines formed on their lips. Satisfied with what they just professed.

"Ah, your words always fascinated me," Ghost Painter agreed. "Thanks for that, but I'm afraid my sketchbook feels lonely without me now, they're in the library. Maybe next time you can teach me."

"I'm ready anytime, but a dance comes with a price."

"Sure, get as much coffee as you like!"

Ghost painter turned his back. Entered the library and grab their sketchbook. Spend the evening locked up in the art room. Like they always used to.