Kniles __full__ — Brock

For the first hour, Brock felt nothing. That was his way. He walked through the walls of his house—through the bathroom where his toothbrush still stood in its cup, through the bedroom where the sheets lay tangled from his final night of restless sleep—and catalogued the details with the methodical detachment of a tax auditor. Pipes in good condition. Attic insulation insufficient. Front door lock faulty.

“For the vessel.”

Turn off the notifications. Cancel the meeting. Close the laptop. brock kniles

Here is the hard truth that the productivity gurus won't sell you (because it doesn't sell planners or apps): For the first hour, Brock felt nothing

He began to haunt not out of malice, but out of habit. He lingered in doorways. He caused no cold spots, no flickering lights—his emotional range had been narrow in life, and death had not broadened it. The most he could manage was the occasional sigh, a soft exhalation that the living mistook for a draft. Once, the toddler looked up from her blocks and said, “Hi, mister,” and Brock felt something crack inside him, something he had not known was still intact. Pipes in good condition

Brock tried again. Help me, he thought. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be anything but a ghost.