Be Good, My Lady. We Don't Keep Ghosts

“Hey, little girl, it's so cold out. Why are you here again?” In January, every corner of the capital was still drab and lifeless. Even the wind had turned fierce, clawing at everyone's faces until they smarted with pain. The man asking was somewhere between middle-aged and elderly. He wore sunglasses, had his mouth wrapped tightly in a scarf, and a thick felt hat on his head. Both hands were tucked into his sleeves.