When people in town spoke about the old gray horse that lingered at the edge of Miller’s farm, they called him Ghost. Not because he was pale or eerie, nor because he haunted the land like some restless spirit — but because he seemed to live somewhere between the past and the present. He was a living echo, a breathing reminder of something beautiful and broken that refused to be forgotten — a fragment of time that still lingered, though everything else had moved on.
