Frank had passed away some years ago, leaving behind his wife, Mary, and his young daughter, Amanda. Since his passing, he continued to roam the halls of what had been their home as a lonely spirit. He had seen Mary find new love and Amanda enter her teenage years.
Frank watched silently as Amanda slammed her bedroom door, the sound echoing through the house. He longed to comfort her, but his ethereal hands passed right through her when he tried.
Mary's voice drifted up from downstairs, "Amanda, honey, please come down and talk to us."
Frank glided through the closed door into Amanda's room. Posters of bands he didn't recognize covered the walls, and clothes were strewn across the floor. Amanda lay face-down on her bed, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.
"It's not fair," she muttered into her pillow, "Dad would have understood."
Frank's heart ached. He wished he could tell her that he was here, that he did understand. He watched as she sat up, wiping her eyes, and reached for the framed photo on her bedside table.
Frank sat down next to her and put his arm around her. But something felt different this time. He felt a …warmth. He felt himself getting pulled into her. Frank tried to pull himself away, but it was no use.
"Dad?" The word escaped her lips, barely audible.
Suddenly, Frank felt a strange sensation, as if he were being compressed and stretched simultaneously. The world around him blurred, and for a moment, he thought he might be finally moving on to whatever lay beyond. But then, with a jolt, everything snapped back into focus.
He blinked, disoriented. The room looked different somehow - larger, more vivid. He could smell the faint scent of Amanda's strawberry shampoo and feel the soft comforter beneath him. With a start, he realized he was no longer sitting beside Amanda; he was looking through her eyes.
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