Work Text:
A crinkled aluminum bag pried half-open, a tumbled pile of curled potato chips inside, rests on the kitchen table. You heard the voice like the closeness of a framed picture on a bedside stand: Gordon, I crave delicious Lays! What does it say when a ghost has the power to move your hand? The requester is gone, yet he lingers in crevices of your mind and the foundation of your home. A chip in a hand is easy to crush; a gnome, not so much. You’re left with salt in your mouth and a memory that clings like plastic wrap.