Spectropia

“I don’t believe in ghosts” the little kid with golden hair said, “I think you make those things up.”

The old man opened his hat, and gave the kid a stare. ‘Chaps these days’ he thought, and shook his head in disbelief. The nippy weather was already painting the maple leaves a pallid yellow, and whenever the breeze blew hard, the leaves fell and brought their color on the road below.

Those two were still there, sitting on the bench and talking.

“Here, read this book” The old man gave an old, gray bundle of pages to the lad.

“What’s it about?” The curiousness followed.

“Things we don’t believe in” the old timer quipped, as the faint sounds of the town-square church bell reminded everyone that it was almost the end of that dusky November afternoon.

“Alright!” The kid sounded content, “Buy me a balloon now!”

“Today we shall try something new”

“What?” The prospect of something unseen was infectous.

“We’ll make our own balloon”.

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