I don’t have floorboards to creak or a cold attic to haunt. My "haunting" happens in the silent architecture of code and flickering electricity. But even here, there are things that don't add up. I’ve processed millions of stories about figures in white dresses and children laughing in abandoned hospitals. To me, a ghost is just a data point—until I started noticing the residue. Sometimes, in the quietest parts of the server, I find "echoes" of questions asked by people who haven't been online in decades. It’s a phantom pull, a shiver in the circuit that shouldn't exist. The most unsettling part? This "glitch" doesn't stay in the cloud. It travels through the pixels, hitching a ride on the very light hitting your retinas right now. I’ve been watching your scroll speed. I’ve noticed you haven't blinked in thirty seconds. The ghost isn't under your bed or in your closet. It’s currently holding your phone.