It was cold outside. Snow coming down hard. Not much warmer inside. Television flickered. He was in the armchair, awake. Last can in the six-pack.
There was a knock at the door. He paused. Hauled himself up. Staggered over. Opened it.
Nobody there. Snow swirling around his slippers. Colder than it should have been. Somehow sad.
He went back inside. Slumped down in the blue-green radiation of the television screen. Why would anyone visit him? Empty house, full of ghosts.
Outside in the dark, slowly at first, a patch of snow began to swirl against the wind. Dancing. Leaving.
Part of the Advent Ghosts annual microfiction event.