He didn't die; ghosts don't have that luxury. Instead, he fell back into the beginning.
Centuries collapsed. The house was torn down. He stood in the footprint of his bedroom while a skyscraper rose around him, cold and steel-eyed. He climbed to the roof and looked at a city that had forgotten the dirt it was built on. Then, he jumped. He didn't die; ghosts don't have that luxury
He stood in the corner of the living room, watching M eat a chocolate pie. She ate it with a focused, brutal grief, scraping the tin until the sound set his non-existent teeth on edge. He wanted to reach out, to tell her that the house wasn't empty, but his hands were only folds of fabric. When he moved, the world didn't ripple; he was the ripple. The house was torn down
He watched M leave. He watched a new family move in, their laughter like glass shards in his quiet space. He lashed out, shattering plates to reclaim the silence, but they only replaced the porcelain and kept laughing. Then, he jumped
Time began to lose its edges. It didn't flow; it sedimented.