Today I read:

That year, thousands entered the lottery for only a handful of husbands.  Of that handful, very few could remember what had happened after they had departed.  One husband could only recall a smell: the stogie-scented leather of his father’s Lincoln.  Another had been stranded in an endless bed of his ex-wife’s daffodils, and whenever he yanked a flower, two more plants unfurled in its place.  Was it heaven through which they had passed, or some flavorless form of limbo?  There was no one to ask, and gradually the question lost its novelty, eclipsed by the more pressing question of who among the living would land a ghost husband.

— Tania James, “Girl Marries Ghost

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