Then there was another war and, being drafted, he went off to fight. He wrote to her and promised to stay safe. He promised that he would return home and they would start the family they always wanted. But she fell ill, and when he returned from the war she was dead. He buried her solemnly and spent his pay from the army to buy the most beautiful marble headstone. He lived on quietly, ridding himself of everything that would remind him, except for the picture. Every night he would pray in front of the picture and ask that God look after his dear love. He grew very old all alone in the cottage, and he died one cold winter night while he lay in bed praying.

It was an overly romantic and sad picture I painted on the canvas of my mind and I brushed the tears from my eyes. It seemed I could almost hear him playing his violin, the violin in the photograph. I opened my eyes and stared in utter disbelief at the fantastical scene before me. The room was awash in the luminescent glow of dancing spirits. Men and women long since dead whirled and turned as they moved to the haunting melody played by a violin. They were ghosts, ghosts from the graveyard. Spirits of the people he had buried and cared for, and now he sat on a ghostly box and played for them. It was him, almost as he was in the photo. A little older, a bit more worldly. At his side was his beautiful wife. She stood with her hand on his shoulder and smiled down at him.

I stared in awe at the supernatural party taking place before me. I felt I did not belong, I felt that I was an intruder. Yet, at the same time I was honoured to be present, even though I could not participate and they did not notice me. The merriment continued through the night as I watched. Eventually the moon began to fall from the sky and the stars winked out one by one as the sun slowly crept up over the horizon. Soft pink and rich purple filtered through the windows and each of the ghostly couples in turn bid farewell to their hosts and drifted out through the door. Last to go was his pretty wife. She gave him a hug and a kiss and then followed the others back to the graveyard.

I felt pain and anguish for him. It must be torture for him, hell even, to see his love for so short a time each night. As I watched, he got up from his box and moved to the centre of the room. Here he knelt, so close to me I could have reached out to touch him. Slowly he rolled back the rug to reveal a small trap door cut into the floor boards. With ghostly hands he opened a ghostly portal and placed into its dark mouth his ghostly violin. After this was done he closed up the door and replaced the rug. Standing, he looked out the window to the east to watch the first rays of daylight break through the trees. Then he walked solemnly to his bed and, lying down into the covers, disappeared with the entrance of the sun.

Clutching the photograph to me I fell into a deep sleep. When I awoke the sun had moved overhead and it was noon. I stood up from the chair and stretched my body. It was indeed a very fine day. I replaced the picture on the wall, above the mantel, and getting down on my knees I carefully rolled back the rug. The small, square door was there. I tugged at the iron ring set into the wood and eventually the door popped open. Below was darkness to which my eyes gradually adjusted. In the cool recess below the floor was a box. It was long, about three feet, and I recognised it as the box he had sat upon while playing.