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When Ichigo was a kid, they told him that the house down the road was haunted.
Filled to the brim with ghosts, they murmured, awed and afraid.
Even at that age, Ichigo was skeptical.
If seeing ghosts was all it took to be haunted, then Ichigo has been haunted his whole life.
Inside, the floorboards creaked and the curtains upstairs would flutter, cupboard doors would open on their own, and door hinges would squeal. The house was old, but haunted it was not.
Ichigo's seen what a haunting looks like.
It's an empty place setting. It's the seat no one takes. The voicemail you keep playing just to hear their voice. The text messages you read over and over knowing you won't get another.
It's having to smile at everyone, unable to break down because the person that puts you back together isn't there to do it anymore.
It's having to remember that you were alone before them, and now you're alone after them, and it isn't fair.
Hauntings, despite what most people think, are not about ghosts, they're about the living.
They're a reminder the way empty houses are: once lived in, once loved, hereherehere.
With windows empty of light and movement, Ichigo's seen moments his father resembled a ghost more than the actual thing as he stared at nothing.
His usually steady hands would fidget, wring at the thought, the reminder that he had nothing to hold onto now, but himself.
And eventually the secrets would spill just as the cupboard doors would swing open and cry out as the hinges squeal. But that was for later. That was for after.
After the Grandfisher. After Rukia left. After Soul Society. After his powers were taken from him. After Rukia disappeared like so much ash before his eyes.
She isn't gone. He knows she isn't.
But somehow that's worse.
Because he thinks he sees her. He thinks if he just turns his head fast enough, he could catch her smile for more than just the corner of his eye.
Even if he thought it would be enough, if he could, it's not.
Hauntings are longing, coveting, and then losing. It's love with nowhere to go except to where they used to be: beside you.
It's the glance in the direction of where they used to be, but aren't anymore. Its the smell of their shampoo fading from their pillow, their perfume from their clothes. It's standing in your favourite places and realising that no one will see it the way they used to see it with you.
It's being at home, and knowing it isn't home anymore.
He sees ghosts. He used to.
Somehow, he's more haunted than before.