text: On a cold autumn morning, camera in hand, I set out to the park near my home in an attempt to capture the grandeur of the changing foliage. Clouds overhead dampened the spectacle of mother nature's display as the red, gold, and amber hues shone ashy and dull under overcast skies. A low mist hung to the ground as if the spirits of all that had ever lived in my city came back to walk the earth. I had my camera at the ready to capture the hauntingly beautiful landscape around me. I snapped photos as I walked, checking each on the digital display to ensure the lighting and framing was just right. As I looked at my last photo, I noticed a ghostly figure sitting on a bench underneath the maple that I had just photographed. I hadn’t seen her when I framed the photo in my viewfinder, but when I looked up, there she was--a beautiful, young woman in a flowing, laced white dress. Her dark hair was done up but with strands falling out as if from a long night. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her lips were gray. Her mascara ran down her cheek, stark against her porcelain white skin. As I approached I could see her face was wrenched in agony. She cried, dropping her face in her hands, her body shuddering with sadness. I walked up beside her. "Do you mind if I sit?" I said. She shook her head, wiping tears away, crumpling her face, trying to hold back tears. "No, not at all," she said, sniffling. After I sat, she put her face back in her hands and began to cry even louder. I looked upon her with pity, wishing there was some way I could help this poor girl. But what advice did I have to give? I was an old man, and she was a young woman, obviously suffering some kind of heartache. I knew my fair share about heartbreak in my long life, but I could never know what it was like to be a scorned bride. But she looked like she needed someone, so I offered her my ear. "Do you want to talk about it?" I asked, shifting uncomfortably on the bench. She didn't respond, she just kept crying. But by the way she was dressed, I surmised that her wedding day didn’t turn out as she had planned. "Is it your wedding?" I asked, unsure how to bring up the topic delicately. "No," she said, looking directly into my eyes. "Today is my funeral." My heart began to pound and I straightened up. But then, after a moment, I chuckled. Thinking she was joking and trying to dissipate my unease her black, lifeless eyes made me feel. "Your funeral?" "Yes," she said, nodding and sniffling. She wiped her tears away with her gray fingers. I decided to play along, perhaps this girl was sick, needing psychiatric care. Perhaps I could gain her trust and bring her into the nearest hospital. "Then why are you in your wedding dress?" I asked. "This is what I was wearing the day I died," she said. "I had just been married that morning to the love of my life. The wedding could not have gone more perfectly. We danced and sang and our families were all there, having a great time. It was the greatest day of my life." She paused, taking a deep breath looking up to the granite skies. "But that night, I fell asleep in my dress and I never woke up," she said. "I don't know what happened. The next thing I knew, I was watching my poor husband struggle to wake me up. He started to yell and scream and shake and cry. He called an ambulance. The whole time I was in the corner trying to calm him, but he didn't see me. 'Jake,' I said. 'Jake, it's okay, I'm right over here.' But he didn't hear me. Then, I watched as my mother and father cried over my lifeless body. They said it was an aneurysm, and there was nothing anyone could have done for me." My stomach felt like it flipped, my heartbeat quickened. But I decided to play along. "Well, how did you end up here?" I asked. She pointed her finger far across the park, where I saw a huddling of bodies all dressed in black. I spotted a man crying over a casket, and an older couple weeping together. A preacher’s voice boomed across the misty plain. "I have been following my husband around," she said. "I want him to know that I love him. I want my parents to know that I love them too. That's why I'm here. I was at the funeral before, and I was shouting at my husband, saying 'Jake, it's ok! I love you, I'm right here! Jake! Mom! Dad! I'm right here.' But they didn't turn around, they couldn’t hear me. They just kept crying--and I kept crying too." I nodded. It was all so strange. This woman was clearly sick, or pulling my leg. Either way, those tears were real, so I did the best I could. "Well, you can tell just by how sad they are, that they loved you very much,” I said. “And they must have known you loved them too. “When my wife died, I worried that I didn't tell her I loved her enough, but I never worried about how much she loved me. That was apparent in every day we spent together. One day, you, your husband and your parents will be reunited and you'll know for sure. But for now, take comfort in the way they miss you. You meant the world to them." For the first time since I met this young woman, she smiled. It was a beautiful smile that anyone could fall in love with. "I guess you're right, but it's so hard to be in this...this...limbo right now. How do you deal with it? Why aren't you with your wife right now?" I furrowed my brow. "Well, like I said, she passed away, a long time ago." "Yes, but so have you." She pointed down the path. My body face down on the concrete--the camera shattered on the ground beside me.