I hear the organ start.

The organist must have come in to practise. I take the book off my face and look around. The shafts of light coming through the stained-glass windows have shifted around the interior of the church.

I cannot tell what time it is, but it must be much later. The boxes of food have gone from the table at the back, so someone has been in, I know that. Lady is still asleep beneath the pew.

I walk slowly down the wide aisle of the church towards the altar at the front, and bits of the church services that I used to go to with Gram keep coming back to me.

I even know, without guessing, that the piece the organist is playing is Bach. This one is Bach’s ‘Toccata and Fugue in D Minor’. I bet you’d know it if you heard it, honestly.

It’s not like I feel religious or anything. I’m not having some huge revelation or being ‘filled with the holy spirit’ like Suki Kinghorn said she was after she went on some church camp and wouldn’t shut up about her ‘new best friend’ Jesus. (For a while the Knight twins teased her about her ‘invisible friend’, which I thought was a bit mean, long before the idea of an invisible friend became more real than I would like.)

It’s more like remembering. I gaze up at a huge carving of Jesus on the cross hanging over the altar. It used to scare me when I was little. It’s painted in colour, and there’s blood on his hands and feet, and I remember the story of Jesus dying and coming back to life and I remember thinking, even when I was little, how unlikely that was.

Of course, that was all before I turned invisible myself, which I wouldn’t have believed was possible when I was little either.

Is that me? Am I a living ghost?

I look down at myself: my invisible self, casting no shadow like the vampires in films.

Can I live my life, my whole life, like this?