No one ever looks at me and pictures me as a main character. Most people don’t really look at me at all, actually; they just look right through me, as if I’m anactualghost, rather than simply a ghostwriter.
And sometimes Ifeellike one, too.
The day drags on. I retreat back to the safety of my office to work on my latest ghostwriting project —Nine-to-Thrive: How to Build Your Side Hustle Empire. Paris and Levi serve coffee and books, and bicker quietly between themselves about whether Booktok is better than Bookstagram. At some point, a group of men from the council arrive in a van with the snow globe and Christmas tree, both of which they erect in the village square, directly opposite the shop door. There’s a brief lull in the steady stream of customers as they start work, so the three of us stand with our noses pressed against the window, watching as the men inflate the giant plastic bubble, then fill it with polystyrene ‘snow’, which will be blown around by a wind machine for the photos.
“Is it just me, or is this weird?” I ask, as a small crowd gathers to watch them do it.
“It’s just you,” Levi and Paris chorus, in a rare display of unity.
On the other side of the window, a group of kids squabble over who should be first to have their photo taken inside the globe. In the end, they all go in together, and their proud parents snap photos ofthem throwing the fake snow around, until someone gets a fistful of the stuff in their face, and it all ends in tears.
“I love this time of year,” Levi sighs happily. “It’s just sowholesome.”
We watch silently as a small girl punches her brother in the face, and is dragged out of the globe by her frazzled mother, who yells that Father Christmas won’t be coming to their house now.
So wholesome.
So heartwarming.
I watch idly as the little family walks away, and it’s just as they reach the center of the village square that I see the ghost.
Or what Ithinkis a ghost, at least.
Elliot Sinclair is standing in front of the Christmas tree, one hand shading his eyes against the low winter sun as he looks up at lights, which will be officially switched on in a short ceremony later this week.
But no, heisn’tstanding in front of the Christmas tree.
Because it can’t be him.
It justcan’tbe.
I press my forehead against the window, my breath misting the glass as I try to get a better look.
I know the man in the square cannot possibly be my onetime boyfriend, and long-time nemesis, Elliot Sinclair: bestselling author ofThe Snow Globe, and professional breaker of hearts.
And yet, he looks so like him; his dark hair curling out from under the edges of a beanie hat pulled down over his ears, his tall frame slightly stooped against the December chill.
I reach up to wipe the window clean with the sleeve of my sweater, firmly reminding myself that there’s no such thing as ghosts. And sure enough, by the time the window’s clear, and I’m looking outacross the square again, the figure by the tree is gone — if he was even there at all — and I’m not totally sure whether I’m relieved or disappointed. (Or, you know, just plainterrifiedthat I’ve apparently started hallucinating. Because that’s not exactly great news either, is it?)
I shake my head firmly to get rid of the image of Elliot that’s taken up residence there, and go back to what I was doing, telling myself it’s totally normal to sometimes think you see your ex lurking around your village, even though it’s been over a decade since you last saw him, and he lives at least 4,000 miles away.
Itistotally normal, isn’t it?
Customers come and go. At least half of them say the “It’s you!” line as they walk through the door. All of them think they’re the first one to do it. Most of them buy snow globes.
“There’s just one thing I want to know,” says the final customer of the day, handing her copy of Elliot’s book to Paris. “How does it end?Really, I mean? I know in the movie it ends with her standing him up, so he’s forced to go back to America without her. But what happened next? Did he come back? Did she follow him? I can’t believe Elliot Sinclair just left us all hanging like that. It’s so cruel of him! He really should have given us a sequel.”
The woman laughs, her question already forgotten, because she knows —everyoneknows — there is no answer to it. There was never a sequel toThe Snow Globe. There were no more books at all from Elliot Sinclair after that, much to the dismay of his legions of fans. That famous cliffhanger ending was never resolved; leaving everyone to forever wonder what happened next, and if the couple in the story got to live happily ever after.
But Iknowwhat happened.
I know he didn’t come back.
I know she didn’t follow him.
And that’s how I know all of this is fake: the snow on the window, the plastic globe in the village square, and even the story in the book everyone comes here to buy.
Not all stories have a sequel.
