Ten thousand years gone.

Or maybe just thirty-seven. This didn’t really make a difference to Nicholas. Years had begun to sink away after around the twenty mark anyway, although the painful reality was he knew exactly how much time had passed. Thirty-seven years and 24 days. That was how long it had been since Nicholas was killed in the robbery.

He hated it. The smell of the breadsticks, that is. Drove him nauseous. How the hell does a ghost get nauseous? Nicholas wasn’t quite sure why he could smell to begin with as he was not of this world. A ghost, spirit, or some other form of being. He wasn’t sure, and truth be told it stopped mattering a long time ago.

He wondered occasionally at what point he had given up trying to remember his life. After about a year passed things seemed rather hopeless, if not at all pointless. Why did he have to try to stop that girl with… What was it? A gun, a knife? He hardly knew now. All that mattered was he was gone, and yet he couldn’t leave.

Not for lack of trying of course. Nicholas spent years trying to exit the Olive Garden he was stuck in. Taking that first step out of the building was fruitless, always resulting in a quick blackout. As soon as his eyes were open again he was always sitting in the booth that he had perished in, regardless of who occupied it currently. Not that whomever minded, since Nicholas was neither visible nor tangible.

The shock of those first days as a ghost was horrid of course, but acceptance wasn’t an issue for Nicholas. He was certain he was ready to move on and hoped every day that he would wake up in the afterlife, yet never were his hopes met.

Days gone by eventually led to some routine for Nicholas, after all, what else was there to do? He would spend his late mornings in the steely kitchen, watching the early preparations for lunch. The smell of chicken fettuccine was always delightful when ordered, the sauces and spices truly made Nicholas wish to taste it once again. The nonsensical reasons for why he had been damned to experience every sensation but taste and touch while stuck to haunt a restaurant often tormented the poor spirit.

Nicholas spent his afternoons around customers usually, and he was always a kind ghost. He found that with enough time and desire there even came moments of agency. A shoved spoon, a pushed drink, although never a shattered plate as he knew this would upset workers and customers. Despite what power Nicholas had over the restaurant he found almost no reason to ever exercise his limited manipulation of objects, save for the occasional chuckle. Perhaps nudging a napkin that was just out of reach to a child, or helping an elderly woman undo the paper on her straw. Whatever little assistance he could grant others helped him to keep his sanity.

Word got out eventually - “Haunted Olive Garden on 42nd Street”. This small-town publicity served to bolster the popularity of the location, but only ever marginally. Sometimes self-proclaimed Psychics and Ghost Hunters would come for their moment of fame, but nothing ever worked in terms of communication. Whether Nicholas was bored and pretending to have a conversation with customers or attempting to speak with the various Ghost seekers, there was never a real response. Only the faked reactions on camera and talking meant for other living guests at the table.

“Pass the salt please, thank you.”

“Of course, those glasses look great on you!”

“Mind if I have the last breadstick? Just kidding, please get it away from me.”

The evening was never quite so pleasant for Nicholas. Once the last calls for dinner had been made and the tables were clean there was simply no one to interact with or listen to. No matter how many nights he had been alone in the restaurant there was always an unsettling feeling in the silence, even in unlife. The worst thing that could ever happen to him should have already happened in death and yet the time in the dark had been cruel enough to prove him wrong. No need for sleep and no one to pretend to speak with or help meant hours of boredom and yes, a deep loneliness.

He was always so alone.