The ghost of a rocket ship haunts my grandfather's backyard.
He has an expansive woodland behind his two-story, nineteenth-century home. I think the plumbing in his house is older than the forest. At least the upstairs toilet is.
"Jessie," Grandpa calls. "Come look. It's back."
I set down my phone and join him at the back door. He has the door propped on, and we both lean out into the late-summer wind. Before I see anything, I smell smoke and metal. The wind whips sounds through my ears: creaking, steaming, warping sounds.
Then I see it. Just beyond the first line of full, green trees, a machine sits. The engine of an exploded rocket ship landed there twenty years ago. Grandpa remembers when it was removed by a series of black suits and officials in lab coats. But the ghost remains. In August nights, it appears and cries out for its missing parts.
I've seen it four times. Once, I tried to walk out to it, but the heat of the engine was too much. Now, I know that my job is only to watch and witness.
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