Phineas Illingworth languished behind the steering wheel of his rusted model-t as it crept soundlessly down the street. In May of nineteen seventeen, he’d driven the prettiest girl in Oak Creek to the ball in it. She left with his rival. Frustrated, he ripped out his engine and left it for dead. A hundred years later, he still thought about her—the children they might have had.
Her great-great-granddaughter, with pigtails flying, and tennis shoes thumping, darted across the road. Phineas didn’t even brake.
She turned to wave at her mother. He hated being a ghost.
How would you have written the prompt?