They've started to notice. I have to hand it to them, it was quicker than the last family. Only today, I heard the father muttering that he must be going insane. After all, why would anyone leave car keys on top of a wardrobe? I can't help it, I like the way they jiggle when I shift them around the house. It's not like there's anything else I can do. The boy, Leon, is hardly around, college some place up north, but his sister Emily is my age and still living at home. I like watching Emily and her friends, with their make-overs and dress swapping, but I can never be a part of that. I can't leave the house either, so following her on a day-out into town is out of the question. All my friends grew old and died centuries ago. My family left the house not long after my accident, too many memories I suppose. Mother became so emotional, especially when she came across anything that was once mine, and Father, well, he became a volatile mess of the proud man he was. They tried for months, pretending that everything was fine and that they had grieved for their girl, but it never healed. God above, I took long enough to come to terms with where and what I was. In an eavesdropped conversation, 3 weeks after my funeral, I finally found out how I had died. Turned out that my fiance, Jimmy Fellon, the banker's son, had upturned the cart whilst bringing me home from town. He was running the horse down the embankment to my parent's farm when the wheel snagged, pitching me forward and straight under a galloping horse. I was apparently killed outright, which my unwilling informer pressed would be a comfort to my family. So only 8 months after they buried me, my parents sold up and headed east with my siblings for a new life far from the pain. The people I once knew stopped by a few times when the new family arrived but it got too depressing to see them growing older with each visit, or bringing their own families to the house after church, so I stopped watching.