Co-Working With Ghosts

The desk was cheaper than it should’ve been, which is how Lena ended up renting it. Third floor, co-working space, exposed brick, bad coffee—and a cold spot that hovered near her chair like an unspoken comment.

The first time the ghost spoke, it was about her to-do list.

“You’re batching wrong,” a voice whispered, polite but firm. “Emails before deep work is a mistake.”

Lena froze. Then she did what freelancers do best: she adapted.

The ghost—Arthur, former accountant, deceased mid-burnout—had opinions on calendars, invoicing, and the tyranny of notifications. He taught her the Pomodoro Technique before it had a name. He insisted on lunch breaks. He loathed open tabs.

Under his guidance, Lena doubled her output. Clients praised her focus. Deadlines bowed.

Sometimes, Arthur sighed wistfully. “If I’d known this sooner,” he said, drifting toward the window, “I might’ve lived.”

On her last day, Lena left a thank-you note and a candle.

The desk felt warmer after that.

Her productivity dipped—but her nights felt lighter.