Alone, I stood, by the window of my bedroom, looking at the vast array of stars that blessed the blackness of the night sky with their romantic beauty. In the living room, the clock ticked, breaking the silence that clothed the atmosphere of the apartment. Wanting to feel the night’s gentle beauty wrap itself around my physical frame, I tiptoed past my parents’ room who, unlike myself, were blessed with the bliss of peaceful slumber after a day’s work. My brothers, too, were lost to the peaceful slumber that claimed them the moment their heads touched their pillows.

The front door creaked softly as I opened it, but I was not worried about rousing anyone from their sleep. They slept too soundly to be disturbed by my stealthy movements.

I took the lift to the ground floor.

Just as the doors opened, I noticed a young man, sitting on a stone bench in the lobby. I didn’t think to say hello, for he looked as though he wanted to be left alone. I walked silently past him, out to the surrounding gardens.

I felt myself relax as the night breeze caressed my skin, slowly making love to me through the soft fabric of the nightdress that hesitated at my knees.

I started as something lightly touched my shoulder, shattering my moment of aloneness.

I spun round in alarm to come face to face with the young man who I’d passed only moments before, sitting by himself on the stone bench in the lobby.

I took in a look of sadness in his brown eyes which tugged at my heart.

“I am so sorry, for having disturbed you, miss,” he said in a rich, heavily accented voice.

I smiled and told him that he had not disturbed me, although I really wanted to be alone.

He grew silent and glanced away as though deeply embarrassed.

I wondered if he was going to say anything more. I was frankly attracted by his rich, heavily accented tones, that somehow spoke of an upper class back ground.

“I once knew a girl...” he said, then stopped, his embarrassment overcoming him.

I nodded, silently encouraging him to go on.

His gaze fell upon me and for a long time, he remained silent.

I began to feel almost frightened and started to turn away from this strange youth, when he touched my arm and called me by an unfamiliar name.

“I am sorry, but I am not Joanna,” I told him.

He nodded, as though not believing me, and apologized. “You look so much like her,” he murmured, still holding onto my arm.

An involuntary movement of my arm made him realize he was still holding on to me, and he quickly released me.

Ignoring the voice of intuition that told me to leave the man immediately and return indoors, I asked him if he wanted to talk. I knew I was possibly doing a silly thing, but something made me want to help him, if I could.

He led me to a wooden bench that nestled among the trees in a shady part of the garden. I would have preferred to stay where it was lit by the apartment’s outside lighting, but out of politeness I let him take the lead. I only hoped I wouldn’t regret it.

Despite the gloom, I noticed the strong, masculine contours of his youthful features, yet there was something about him that wasn’t quite right.

“I have known Joanna since I was a boy, playing cowboys and Indians with the neighborhood kids,” he told me. He went on to tell of how they fell in love and how fate cruelly made it impossible for them to be together, his voice scarcely audible.

Gently, I stroked the hand of the young man, who was so consumed with sorrow. Just then, he started gasping for breath, and I became frightened for him.

“I’ll seek help,” I said. “Don’t worry.”

But he gripped my hand and shook his head. “You have helped me,” he said. “My soul is no longer burdened. I can now go to my Joanna. There she is, waiting for me.”

I watched, helplessly, as he slipped to the ground at my feet and lay quite still. I started to weep for the young man, whose name I never even got to know. I knew instinctively that he was beyond human help now, so I sat and watched over his inert body.

My family found me still sitting in the same place the following morning, and wanted to know what was the matter.

I looked up, surprised that they did not see the body that lay before me. It was then that I noticed that his body was not with me. I knew that he had died, for I had seen it happen before my eyes.

My father, knowing that I was not going to listen to reason, asked me to describe him. I noticed that the color had drained from his concerned face as I described the youth. He refused to say a word, when I pressed him. He remained silent all the way up to our apartment. Once there, he hurried to the master bedroom and rummaged through his things until he found a faded photograph of a young man, dressed in an old fashioned army uniform. He showed the photograph to me and my heart stopped for a moment, when I recognized the youth.

“He was my platoon mate during the occupation,” my father said thoughtfully. “Peter had a girlfriend, who died due to illness, while we were fighting in the war. When Peter heard of the news, he went crazy and, one morning, we found him, dressed in ordinary clothes, hanging from a nearby tree.” My father looked up. “But that was twenty years ago.”

I was speechless. I had spent the night in the company of a ghost!

However, for some reason, that realization didn’t frighten me, for it was as though he had left a part of himself deep in my heart. After all, he’d come to me in the night, and I’d listened to his tale.

That night, as I rested, he came to me in a dream, surrounded by a ray of golden light and told me of how happy he finally was.