Fall has finally returned

From a 

Long

Long 

Trip.

She arrives at our doors

Her hair turning burnt red

Hair like lightning

Sprung from her head,

In her garden she chased

Spirits of the dead.

"The keeper of the ghosts!"

The townsfolk would cry,

And from foggy windows,

I glare across the counter from my spot nestled between the folds of the brown paper bag. Stupid Gala is doing that thing again, as she has every single day, for the past, I don’t know, week?