Some would say that every ghost story is a love story. They would say no matter what, somewhere in the history of the death or life of the person or ghost there existed a beautiful and gut wrenching love story, and some even believe that love had, in some way, shape, or form, a direct result on the death that occurred. The amount of time that may have passed mattered not; they were connected, no matter what.
Spring love is the freshest of love, the love of the brand new start, a love consisting of pastel tie-dye and springtime flowers. Some also say that if the death of the one in a love affair happens in spring, and the love is in the spring as well, the ghost of the deceased will spend eternity bidding for love in a barren place that has no changing seasons, looking for the same love, the fresh spring love that had been ripped from their souls.
While that is a romantic theory, the fact is the season doesn't matter whatsoever. If you die in the throes of love, it could be a burning hell hot summer, and you will keep seeking. Fortunately for Gertrude Franz it was a beautifully perfect autumn. Weather-wise anyway.
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