It was a month later, and I was working on my manuscript for a book. "I don't understand why the editor didn't approve of my plot," I complained to myself. "I have a perfectly structured storyline, yet he says I need to work on the development of the story," I slammed my hands on the table and accidentally knocked my pencil off the table. "Great! Now I have to sharpen the point again," I sighed vociferously as I reached for it. Suddenly, the man's face appeared from the floor, and I shrieked then fell off my chair.

"Oh my God! Are you okay?" he asked with a worried expression on his face.

"Yeah..." I nodded and replied. Then, I realized what I had done and smacked my hand over my mouth. It hurt so much that I rubbed my face in pain.

"Wait! You can hear me?!" he questioned, shocked.

I quickly got up and stuttered, "Oh! W-What's wrong with me? Haha. I can't believe I got scared of that ant." I scratched the back of my head nervously, pretending that none of that happened and started exiting the room.

"There's nothing there!" he said as he looked at the ground. "You can see me, can't you?" He stood in front of me, making me stop in my tracks.

"I won't finish this today if I don't continue," I said and ignored him as I got back to my work.

"I know you can see me," he declared, popping up from under my work table and staring at me. I continued to look at the papers behind his murky, white image and cancelled out his voice by putting earphones on. After a while, he left, and I sighed inevitably.

For a few days, he'd stare at me with a sad face as if trying to guilt-trip me. Luckily for him, it worked. He was sitting in the corner of my bedroom like a lost child. I couldn't bear to see him like that, so I gave up. "I'm sorry. Don't feel bad, please. You didn't do anything wrong; it's me. I don't want to be involved with ghosts again," I spoke up.

"You've talked to ghosts before?" he questioned, looking up at me, and I nodded. "What happened?" I tell him my past history with ghosts when I was young that lead to the present day. "Oh, I get it now. I guess that's a valid reason for wanting to avoid us."

"I've told you my story, now tell me yours," I demanded. He told me his name, which was Michael Doberman, his age, which was thirty-two, and how he died. He explained to me that his mother was in need of an organ transplant and was on the waiting list, but he was afraid that by the time there was a donation, she'd have passed away already.

"Mr. Doberman, I see you're here again. Here to ask about the waiting list again?" the nurse at the front desk asked Michael.

"Yes, of course. You should know how important this is," he answered with furrowed brows.

"Yes, yes. Let me look for the papers," she responded as she rummaged through the desk. She pulled out a long list filled with scribbles from top to bottom then scanned for 'Doberman'. She then pulled out another paper that looked exactly the same. "As I can see from this list, your mother is still a long way from getting an organ donation."

"But the list hasn't changed at all. She's been in the same spot for months already!" he exclaimed.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to please calm down and use your inside voice. As you know, organs don't come that easily. I wish I could help, I really do. There's nothing I can do but wait; the same goes for you too, Mr. Doberman," she declared sternly.

"Yes...I'm sorry for the way I acted towards you. I know you're just doing your job," he said. He then headed off to the room which his sleeping mother was in.

"What should I do, mom?" he asked sadly, holding onto his mother's hand tightly.

He was so frustrated he drank a lot that day, and he went home drunk then he choked on his vomit in his sleep, which lead to his death. He had only found out that he was dead when he woke up to sirens and saw paramedics carrying out his body and into an ambulance.

"Wow, that's horrible...and kind of embarrassing," I remarked, which made Michael narrow his eyes at me. "What? I'm sorry, but it is." He shrugged and brushed it off. "Look, it's nice meeting you, but-"

"But I'm a ghost, and you don't want to be involved," he cut me off.

I nodded. "Yeah, I'm sorry."

"Alright, but one more thing before you go back to ignoring me."

"What?"

"Can you help me see if my mother is alright? It's the least you can do for ignoring me this whole time and calling my death an embarrassment," he declared.

"What?! Are you guilt-tripping me into helping you?!" I asked, surprised. He shrugged and acted innocent, and I groaned. "FINE!"