Ghosts aren’t real. There are plenty of things that go bump in the night but none of them are supernatural in any way. Or so I’ve always believed. Until now. Until the ghost of my long dead brother wobbles before me. I drag oxygen into my burning lungs, attempt to hold it, but can’t. It leaves in a rush that sounds more like a wheeze than an exhale. “Sebastian.” He’s not the brother I remember. But somehow, exactly as I always pictured him. The spitting image of our mother—high cheekbones, straight slim nose, dark pink lips, but with our father’s…