He hangs the decoration, a scrap of white with a face facsimile adorning the lumpy top, and then shifts his ladder five feet to hang another. They do not match his vision, but they match his wallet. He pauses, steps away, and returns, shifting the decoration once listed as “hanging ghost” half a foot away. He might not take pride in the look of the thing, but he takes pride in the look of them all. These imperfect pieces must be placed perfectly.

When he is done, the room is dark. Lights turned off to check the effect are now off in earnest. He cannot turn them on again. The building has gone dark while he labored, his coworkers gone and the thermostat set low for the night. There is no one left to see if his vision is visible amongst the clutter and decorations.

He takes one last look round before returning to this office and the one light he could turn back on after time turned them all off. He packs his things, glancing out at the bits of cloth and draped cotton that are visible from his drawing board, all while silently hanging his thoughts on the wall for another day. These mingled doubts, anxieties, and notes of pride will still be there tomorrow, when he can act on them. He does not need them now.

When he is gone, the decorations battle the scant airflow of the greater office, fighting to stay where he placed them. They were not made with pride or care, but they were placed with an abundance of both and what little power they have will be spent to show everyone else the vision he so carefully cultivated: a room haunted in truth by the death of a dream no one supported.