The next afternoon, Julian stood on his grandfather's porch, holding a glass filled with ice, cola, and a generous pour of the rare rum. Captain Ben took a long sip, his weathered face breaking into a wide, bright grin.

"Not the same," Julian muttered, pushing open the heavy glass door of the Emporium.

Julian paid, thanked the man profusely, and practically ran back to his car. The bottle sat securely in the passenger seat, buckled in with the seatbelt.

Julian’s heart sank. "Yeah, that's what everyone else said. I was just hoping..."

The clerk shrugged. "Retail price. I don't believe in gouging people for nostalgia."

The neon sign above Miller’s Liquor Emporium buzzed with a low, rhythmic hum that matched the nervous tapping of Julian’s fingers on the steering wheel. It was 11:45 PM on a Tuesday, and he was on a desperate, late-night quest for a ghost. Specifically, a liquid ghost. Bacardi Torched Cherry Rum.