Sorrow's Weight

    We called him Sorrow.

    He would step forward from a mist that I can only conclude was the past.  His past?  I don't know.  Or was it this house's long reminiscence?  He would step forward and walk the corridor's length, bringing with him a soft illumination, a glow...and a sadness.  It was almost suffocating, that depth of emotion which surrounded him.  He dragged it like a boulder to the window at hall's end.  There, he would gaze through it like a prisoner, pining for something that was no longer there. 

    A dream?

    A lover?

    No one ever knew, but he was always near.  Growing up and witnessing this melancholy wraith, I should have been alarmed at the least.  Terrified perhaps, but it was the weight of that pervasive sorrow which trumped any shock of my witnessing his spirit.

    Poor thing, it was he who was haunted.