Quinn did, in fact, not spend the rest of their life kissing Luis Ortíz.

They didn't see him the day after. Or the day after that. Or the day after that until, suddenly, almost a week had passed.

It wasn't that Quinn was avoiding him. It was just that they didn't know what to do with this new thing between them, if it even was a thing at all. If it hadn't been for the damp clothes hanging over their chair the next morning and the scratchiness of their throat from the cold night air, they would have believed the kiss in the lake to be a very vivid dream.

Once it had set in that it wasn't, Quinn couldn't stop their heartbeat from stuttering every time they remembered. It was becoming a real problem; they would be sitting in a boring lecture, and suddenly they'd flash back to the way Luis had pulled them in by their waist, and they had to spend the next five minutes trying not to scream.

They simply couldn't face Luis in this state, especially not when they had no idea where he stood after all of this. He had texted them a few times—the last message had been a late-night selfie of him triumphantly holding the book on Chinese folklore. It looked like he'd taken it in bed, his hair mussed and his smile a little sleepy, wearing those goddamn glasses and a faded Jennifer's Body t-shirt. It had been three days and Quinn still hadn't recovered.

To take their mind off of things, they'd reverted to spending their evenings in the art building, listening to Vincent telling Hannah stories and talking until their eyelids felt too heavy to keep open.

That night, all the ghosts were present. Quinn was sitting cross-legged on one of the desks, their phone in their lap as around them, the others squabbled over who got to choose the next song. Over the last few hours, they had listened to a delightfully chaotic mix, from the Ramones (Joy performed a mean air guitar solo), over Bootylicious by Destiny's Child (Caleb and Josie danced in their little pajamas as if their afterlife depended on it) to My Funny Valentine by Frank Sinatra (Jun and Joy had swayed together while Vincent had spun a giggling Hannah through the aisle between the desks). Quinn didn't mind being their human aux and gladly indulged them, adding every new song to a playlist they'd made called Ghost Jams.

Presently, Jun was standing in front of them, looking at them with big puppy eyes as he asked, "Can you put on the Ghostbusters song?"

Quinn added it to the queue. "Was that movie already out while you were still alive?"

Jun almost looked a little offended. "It came out, like, three years before I d-worded. I watched it in the cinema with this girl from my school." He chuckled to himself. "I think she was trying to make a move on me all throughout the movie, but I was so absorbed I didn't even notice."

"She couldn't have been that interesting then," came Joy's snarky comment.

Jun turned to her with a grin, snaking an arm around her waist. "Jealous, baby? I can take you to the movies if you want. We still have a few days."

Joy gave an unimpressed snort, but didn't pull away. "Depends. Got any ghost snacks?"

"Uhm, hello?" Jun gestured down at himself. "Me. I'm the ghost snack."

Quinn stifled a chuckle. Out of all the ghosts, Jun was the one who had picked up the most modern slang. Two days earlier, he had quoted an old vine, making Quinn laugh so hard they'd choked on a sip of water while Vincent had watched in mild concern. By now, they were convinced that Jun would have most definitely run a meme page had he had access to the internet, and a popular one at that.

Ghostbusters started playing before Joy could reply. Quinn tuned the noise around them out as they unlocked their phone screen and opened the WeChat app. Two days earlier, they'd finally worked up the courage to message the number their mother had sent them, and since then, they'd been obsessively checking for replies. Worrying their bottom lip between their teeth, they skimmed their text again. They'd debated whether they should try to write it in Pinyin, but had given up after a few tries. Now, it read:

Hello Grandma, this is Quinn. I hope you're well and that it isn't weird that I'm messaging you. Mom gave me your number. I was wondering if you could help me with something? I know we don't know each other very well, but I think we might have more in common than we thought. It would mean the world if we could talk sometime. Love, Quinn.

Reading it over again, Quinn cringed a little. They hadn't known how formal they should write since, on one hand, they had only seen each other a handful of times, but on the other, their grandmother probably had more in common with them than anyone else in their immediate family.

They also hadn't been sure how much they could say in a text—they couldn't exactly open with Hey, I know we haven't talked in like ten years, but apparently I have magick and I think you do, too. Please help me banish my ghost friends? Also, what's the deal with none of you telling me about all of this? In the end, they had left their message intentionally vague and hoped she would pick up on what they were hinting at.

Since the app didn't show any read receipts, Quinn had no way of knowing if their grandmother simply hadn't read it yet, or if they were being ignored. Either way, they felt discomfort squirming in their stomach as they glanced from the message to the date at the top of the screen.

It was already January 24th, which meant that they only had eight days left to find artifacts for Josie, Caleb, and, most importantly, Vincent. Even though Josie and Caleb's death had been the most recent, its circumstances meant that it was proving extremely difficult to find something of theirs that hadn't been destroyed in the fire.

As for Vincent, they were still no closer than they'd been a week ago. They'd gone back to the antiques shop a few times and had even talked to Alphie, but (to absolutely no one's surprise) the old man didn't exactly keep detailed records of his sales or stock. Quinn had also made another desperate attempt at finding anything about Vincent's sister on the internet, to no avail.

As fun as their music nights were, Quinn couldn't push away the muffled sense of panic that grew with every passing day. They were sure that Vincent felt it, too, but he had long ago mastered the art of not showing his emotions—none of the negative ones, anyway.

Quinn's thoughts were interrupted when the door to the classroom flew open and a pair of distinctly human feet strode inside, boots squeaking loudly against the stone floor.

"Hey," Valerie said as she slumped onto the desk next to Quinn, panting like she'd sprinted the entire way.

"Hey," they chuckled. "I thought you were staying the night at Rhia's."

"I am, but... Rhia and I had an idea. Tristan talked his mom into giving us access to Oakriver's archive. You know, where they have all the old newspapers and shit? Maybe we can find something about Vincent's death that'll give us more clues." She broke off, catching her breath. "What do you think?"

Quinn had sat up straighter as soon as they'd heard the word archive. "I think that's a really good idea. Are you okay with that, Vincent?"

"Of course," he immediately said. On his face, Quinn could see the same tentative hope that fluttered in their chest. Temporary and delicate as it was, there was a relief in seeing it; even though Quinn had told him they believed in their plan enough for both of them, it did feel good to know that he hadn't given up yet.

It also felt good to have a set course of action, especially one that didn't involve any criminal activity. If they could've, Quinn would have jumped up and run to the archive right then and there. Instead, they stayed seated, drumming their fingers against the table, and asked, "When?"

"Tomorrow, 10 p.m." Valerie grinned. "Bring Luis, if you can. Tristan says the archive is a maze—if we want to conquer it, we're gonna need as many people as possible."

Quinn didn't need to be told twice and immediately sent off a text.

Luis replied within seconds: i love it when you spext me. i'll be there.

Q: :)

Q: wait, what's spexting?

L: spooky texting ofc. see you tomorrow 🖤👻

***

Quinn had never visited Oakriver's library before. Whenever they had to research something, they usually turned to the college library, which, although smaller, was far more convenient since it was right next to the dorms.

When they arrived in front of the old brick building with Vincent in tow, the others were already waiting, bathed in the yellow light of the little lamp flickering next to the entrance. Next to Rhia and Valerie, Holly and Tristan had joined as well, the latter offering Quinn a toothy grin as he twirled a set of keys around his finger.

"Long time no see!" he said when they approached. "Rhia told me about the whole ghost thing. Pretty wild."

"Yeah," Quinn agreed, huffing a quiet laugh. "I guess you could say that. Thanks for getting us access to the archives."

"Sure thing. My mom was so delighted when I told her I wanted to research something for a paper that she didn't even question why I needed to do it when no one else was there. She just gave me the key and told me to put everything back the way I found it."

"Ah, yes," Valerie snorted, leaning against the red brick wall with her hands in the pockets of her denim jacket. "The sweet rewards of nepotism."

Tristan made a face at her. "This is literally the first time her being the mayor has paid off for me, and only because she thinks I've somehow turned into some kind of academic. Every other time, it means having to clean up after events, visiting boring galas, or handing out flyers. Not to mention having to drive the stupid campaign bus."

Quinn was about to make a teasing comment about said car, but every coherent thought left their head when they spotted the familiar lanky figure strolling towards them. It didn't help that both Vincent and Valerie immediately shot them knowing looks, Valerie going so far as to give them a small shove towards Luis.

"Hey," he said when he reached them. His smile looked uncertain as he came to a halt in front of Quinn, hands buried in the pockets of his coat. "Sorry I'm late. My dad found some kind of flaw in a casket, so I had to redo the entire lid and it was this whole thing—"

He broke off when Quinn took a small step closer. For just a second, it seemed like he was expecting them to kiss him. (For just a second, they maybe thought about it, too.) In the end, all Quinn did was get onto their tiptoes to pluck a wooden chip out of his curls. "Sorry. You... you had something in your hair."

Behind them, Rhia cleared her throat and nodded at the door. "Shall we go in?"

"Yes! Yeah, totally," Quinn immediately said, almost stumbling over their own two feet in their haste to follow the others inside.

Out of all of them, Rhia seemed to be the one most familiar with the library. No one spoke a word as she led them through the foyer and towards an old elevator. They shuffled inside together—Quinn ended up squeezed between Vincent and Luis, one sending a cold shiver through their right side, the other making them feel warm all over.

It was the longest elevator ride of their life.

When the doors finally opened, releasing them into the dark basement, Quinn was the first to stumble outside. The others followed, squinting into the pitch-black before Tristan managed to turn on the overhead lights.

"Damn," Valerie said as they flickered on, drenching the archive in a dim, yellow light. "You weren't kidding when you said it was a maze."

Quinn rubbed at their temple, already feeling a headache building as their eyes scanned over what lay ahead of them. Rows upon rows of ceiling-high shelves stretched as far as they could see, almost overflowing with binders and stacks of newspapers. The air down here was thick, heavy with the scent of old ink and paper as well as the distinct smell of basement.

"I don't suppose you guys have a spell for this?" Luis asked, scratching the back of his neck as he squinted at the shelves at the far end of the vault.

"God, I wish," Holly murmured.

Rhia, who had drifted closer to the first shelf, gave a small hum. "At least they're organized by year. When did Vincent die again?"

"Sometime after Christmas 1932, right?" Quinn turned to look at Vincent for confirmation.

He was still standing rooted to the spot in front of the elevator, anxiously wringing his hands as he glanced between the rows and rows of shelves. "Yeah. There was snow." He broke off, meeting Quinn's eyes with something close to despair, "Quinn, you really don't have to search this entire archive. It's going to take hours, I don't—"

"I'd say somewhere between December 1932 and March 1933," Quinn cut him off, facing the others again.

"That narrows it down," Rhia said with a satisfied nod. "Let's split up. We're not leaving here before we've found something."

With that, she intertwined her fingers with Valerie's and disappeared between the shelves. Holly and Tristan went next, leaving Quinn alone with Luis and Vincent. For a few seconds, they stood in silence—then, Luis startled as if he'd forgotten something and reached into his pocket.

"Here," he said, turning on the spirit box. By now, Quinn was so used to the noise it didn't even bother them. "I put in new batteries, just in case."

Vincent stepped closer to the device, his brows pinched together. "Hello, Luis. I already told Quinn, but you really don't have to be here. The archive is so big, I don't want you to waste your time—"

"You don't have to play the martyr here, Casper," Luis said, immediately making him close his mouth. "You would do the same if it were one of us. And besides... I really don't have anything better to do."

Quinn nodded in agreement. "Yeah. We're in this together, Vincent. We have all night to find something."

"You'd really spend all night here for me?" Vincent softly questioned.

Quinn hated that, for all that he did for others, he couldn't believe that anyone would go out of their way to do something for him. "I'll spend every night here if I have to," Quinn firmly told him. "Now come on. We have newspapers to read."

Luis fell into step with them right away, and after a beat, Vincent trailed after them as well. The section for 1932/1933 was in the very back of the archive, where the lights were even dimmer. The old carpet swallowed the sound of their steps as they wandered between the shelves, past Rhia and Valerie in the January 1933 row and Holly and Tristan going through the February 1933 files.

They came to a halt in the March 1933 section, out of sight from the others.

"You start at the bottom and I'll work my way down from the top?" Luis suggested, dropping his backpack next to the shelf.

Nodding, Quinn knelt and pulled out the first stack of newspapers. The yellowed paper felt brittle beneath their fingertips, but they didn't have time to worry about damaging it and simply flipped the first one open, spreading it out on the floor so that Vincent could peek over their shoulder.

There was something nostalgic about the old-fashioned font and the black and white photos, but considering the number of copies they had to go through, Quinn couldn't linger on any of them. They simply skimmed the headlines, discarding one after the other while Luis, who was balancing on a wooden ladder next to them, did the same. The silence was mostly filled by the nonsense spewing from the spirit box, but sometimes, one of them would read a funny headline out loud or Vincent would point out someone he knew in a picture.

Reading the old editions of Oakriver Daily felt like peeking through a keyhole at the time Vincent had grown up in. As Quinn worked through them, the time period pieced itself together in their head, turning from the vague impression they'd gotten from Vincent's stories into something much more concrete.

Reports about seemingly trivial ongoings in Oakriver—the closing of a well-liked picture palace, an invitation to a potluck dinner organized by the church, a weather report stating it was one of the coldest winters Oakriver had ever seen—alternated with global news: Roosevelt's inauguration, a tsunami in Japan, Germany's nazi party winning the election. To the question if Vincent remembered any of the events, he repeatedly shook his head, but whether this was because he hadn't been alive to witness them or because the memories had simply been erased along with the cause of his death wasn't clear.

After two hours, the group gathered around one of the larger tables that broke up the rows of shelves, talking about their (lack of) findings over cups of coffee from a thermos bottle and the cinnamon rolls Rhia had brought. So far, none of them had found anything, but they weren't discouraged; all of them had come mentally prepared for a long night, and with the combined rush of sugar and caffeine, they quickly went back to work.

Soon, Quinn and Luis reached the middle row of the shelf and worked through the last few papers together.

"What does carrying a torch mean?" Luis asked Vincent as they pored over a comic strip.

"To have a crush on someone," Vincent explained. "Usually an unrequited one."

Without missing a beat, Luis turned to Quinn. "Darlin'," he said in a horrible 1930s accent that he, despite Vincent's vehement protests, insisted was accurate for the period, "I am afraid I've been carryin' a torch for you all along. I know I have a-nothin' to offer ya, but would you ever entertain the idea of goin' to the picture palace with a poor fella like me?"

"You literally have a full-time job," Quinn said, hoping that the low light hid the heat in their cheeks. They reached out to turn the page just as Luis did the same, their breath audibly hitching in their throat as their hands brushed.

"Sorry," Quinn said, quickly pulling their hand back.

Luis didn't look at them, his ears a vibrant red as he scanned the next page with great interest. Vincent was staring at Quinn like he wanted to take them by the shoulders and shake them.

"Guys?" Holly's voice cut through the tense silence. "We... we found something."

In an instant, all three of them were on their feet, rushing through the rows of shelves to find Holly and Tristan bent over a newspaper. Quinn's stomach turned when they saw the look on their faces, Tristan as pale as a sheet, Holly chewing on her thumbnail with troubled eyes.

"It's... it's kind of a lot," Holly said, putting a gentle hand on Quinn's arm. "Are you sure you want to—"

Quinn cut her off with a nod, already sinking to their knees in front of the page they'd opened.

Vincent Baker, Son of Grocery Store Owner Walter Baker, Found Dead

The body of nineteen-year-old Vincent Baker, son of Walter Baker, was found in front of the Baker's house yesterday morning. Passersby alarmed the police around 5 a.m. after passing the scene while walking their dog. It appears the young man, whom many know from his years of working at Baker's Groceries, froze to death in one of the coldest nights Oakriver has seen in decades. With him was his sister, twelve-year-old Rose Baker. She was found unconscious but alive, bundled up in his coat, scarf, and mittens.

Neighbors reported having heard banging on the door in the night to which they didn't react, explaining that they had become a common occurrence in the previous months. "We thought it was just old Walter again," Margaret Finley, the upstairs neighbor, stated. "The family only had one key to their flat, so Walter would often bang on the doors when he came back from a night of drinking, and his children would let him in. There was all sorts of racket on the street every time he went out—all of us got used to going back to sleep whenever it happened. Had we known it was Vincent and Rosie, we would have gotten up right away."

Walter Baker hasn't yet been located, but witnesses report having seen him stumbling down Main Street around one a.m., visibly intoxicated. It is no secret that Baker developed somewhat of a drinking problem after the passing of his late wife, Jean Baker, in 1928. Police suspect that, wherever he is, he likely took the only key to the flat with him, leaving Vincent and Rose locked outside.

Rose Baker has been taken to the hospital, where she appears to be in a stable condition but not yet able to give a statement. One thing is clear: without her brother's selfless sacrifice, she would not have made it through that freezing February night.

By the time Quinn got to the end of the article, it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the archives. They couldn't breathe as the date of the article, February 3rd, 1933 began to swim before their eyes.

It confirmed what they'd felt in their bones all along, that horrible certainty that grew every time Vincent wavered or disappeared: the anniversary of his death was coming up, and it would probably be his last. They just hadn't thought it was this close—close enough that, if they didn't find one of his artifacts within the next week and failed to perform the Imbolc ritual on February 1st, there was no way he was going to pass over to the other side.

When Quinn turned their head to look at Vincent, they were unsurprised to see that he wasn't there anymore.

They turned the spirit box off.