Clara presses herself against the edge of a wooden desk while the boy stares at her.

"You can see me?"

He doesn't respond, not that he has to. Clara can tell. None of them have looked at her so directly before.

She moves toward him. He steps away, eyes wide like a surprised cartoon animal.

Not wanting to frighten him, she stops where she is. She needs to find a way to assure him that she's harmless. At least, she assumes she's harmless. She's never had reason to think otherwise.

Many people have come through Clara's hotel before. They go about their days and nights as you would expect. They arrive late, sleep late, eat a sub-par continental breakfast and leave for the day, or forever.

This boy is different. He's been here quite a while, for starters, and he isn't a guest either. He works at the hotel, fixing leaky sinks, making watered-down coffee for the guests, cleaning up the foul messes they leave behind. Whatever the day manager orders him to do, he does.

He lives here as well, just like Clara, if you can make such a comparison. Clara does. She imagines that she has a lot in common with this boy in addition to the fact that they inhabit the same space. It is true—there are real comparisons to be made. For instance, they are about the same age, give or take a year since Clara can't say exactly how old she is.

They also both spend as many hours as possible reading. She knows this because she watches him... which sounds worse than it really is.

Clara is always careful to give him his privacy, at least when it really matters. Until a few moments ago, though, he never knew she was there, so preserving his privacy wasn't exactly at the forefront of her mind. Now, things have changed.

Clara is standing in his room and he can see her. He isn't staring at the painting behind Clara's head. He's staring at Clara.

This is a dream come true for Clara, but it's also a nightmare. She has been so terribly lonely. Her greatest wish in all her life has been to be noticed. By someone. Anyone.

Well, not just anyone. This boy was her first choice, in all honesty, and now here he is. He notices her, yes, but he wishes he didn't. Clara has no idea how to shut off his terror. Her first real contact with a living, breathing person has been marred.

Clara is not a ghost. It is most important to her that anyone who discovers her existence understands this. Ghosts, assuming they are real, which Clara does not, used to be living people. Before dying and becoming a ghost, they were like everyone else. Clara has never been like everyone else. She is like no one else, as far as she can tell. She has no memory of being alive.

Clara is not a ghost, but then, she doesn't really understand what she is or why she's different from others. She doesn't even know why she thinks of herself as Clara, rather than Susan, or Ashley, or Emma. Perhaps, come to think of it, she should rethink the whole ghost scenario....

But no, that simply isn't it. If she was a ghost, then she wouldn't age, for one thing. And she has aged. She has grown, is still growing. Clara measures herself against the frame of the lobby's archway twice a year. She marks her height with a pen on the grains of wood and only she seems to notice the lines. She is almost a foot taller than when she began measuring herself several years ago.

What's more, ghosts supposedly spend a great deal of time screeching and hollering. They call out to the living, usually to tell them their presence isn't welcome. Clara has no voice to yell with or even to whisper, or, more correctly, she cannot produce sound in the traditional sense. Her mouth forms words, yes, but vocal cords require breath in order to function.

Clara doesn't breathe.

Without intake and expulsion of air, she can say nothing out loud. Her speech is a pantomime.

The boy is still staring at her. He hasn't moved since that first step. Perhaps he's too afraid to move. Perhaps, Clara hopes, he is just slightly curious about her.

"I am not a ghost," Clara mouths to him. "I'm Clara." She states this as though the fact that she has a name removes from her the possibility of a spectral existence.

The boy shakes his head, saying nothing. He either doesn't understand her, or doesn't want to acknowledge that he does.

She tries again. "I'm very pleased to meet you." Perhaps if she's polite, he will realize he has nothing fear.

He opens his mouth as if he wants to say something, then closes his mouth and shakes his head again.

Clara frowns. He thinks he's dreaming. If he can wake himself up, Clara will be gone and his world will be made right. Clara makes his world wrong.

"This isn't a dream, I'm real." At least, she hopes she is.

His brow creases at this. So he does understand what she's saying.

Charged by this small victory, Clara decides to be bold.

"We could be friends."

The boy isn't looking at her any more. Having finally regained the use of his limbs, he has used this newfound mobility to transplant himself as far away from Clara as possible.

Clara is alone, again. Like always.