Round two: the second phantom offers scissors. They are delicate as regret, the air between their fingers a cold slice. Scissors win against paper, and you feel the edge of absence cut another seam. Your shirt falls to the floor in a soft, mournful sigh. The ghosts are careful; they do not take joy in exposure. They catalog the moments—your laugh, the scar on your knee, the way you always look away before someone finishes a sentence.

When the game ends, clothes reclaim themselves—not the same garments, but replacements shaped by what you chose to keep. The ghosts fold your discarded shirts into paper boats and set them sailing toward the window. They do not stay. One by one they recede into the sound of the jukebox, into the seam between the wall and the night, leaving behind a faint coldness and the faint smell of old rain.

Strip Rock-Paper-Scissors — Ghost Edition.

You notice small things: a ghost who lingers near the mirror keeps snagging the reflection’s hair, straightening it. Another always picks scissors when you pick rock, as if to teach you the art of letting go. One soft-spoken specter favors paper—smoothing it over your shoulders like a shawl, pressing messages into the fibers: Sorry. Remember me. Go on.