Tell me there aren't ghosts.
Tell me our business must remain unfinished, our messages undelivered.
Tell me every breath we've ever taken will amount to nothing once our hearts give out and our bodies decay.
Tell me the air is just the air and the shadows are just shadows, that I've never heard a whisper that meant anything more than the wind rustling the trees outside my window.
Explain sunsets and shooting stars, explain spring daisies and summer foxgloves.
Or stop.
Stop your cynicism and your pessimism, stop your rationality and your scientific explanations.
I know that acid raid is caused by CO2 in the atmosphere, and that rainbows are just an illusion, but what could it possibly hurt to see them as something more, something otherworldly, something magic.
We all need a bit of magic, and maybe you need it most of all.
So I know that my grandfather still wishes me well before tests and scoffs when we put flowers on his grave.
I know that when my dog barks at "nothing" she is barking at the spirits you're too blind too see, too stubborn to accept.

There is a ghost in my room and she takes care of me.
Maybe she doesn't even exist, but maybe I need to believe that she does.
Maybe you should let me.