"It's stage four lung cancer," the doctor said, her voice solemn.

Mandi turned to her husband, tears dripping from her chin to the floor. But these weren't sad tears—she was delighted.

And so was Blake.

Mandi immediately knew this was a dream, because Blake's death hadn't been as simple and uncontrollable as a disease or illness. No, he had been a victim of a plane crash while on his way to Tahiti for a business trip. They still hadn't found his body, so his grave remained empty.

In this dream, Blake was still alive and smiling back at her.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips deep into his, absorbing as much of this almost-real warmth as she could.

👻👻👻

Mandi blinked her eyes open and pulled her knees up to her chest. The white blankets on Blake's side of the bed were empty, and for a moment she thought maybe her husband's return was just another dream.

Her eyes focused on the clock hanging on the wall. The large golden second hand ticked a few times at the six, broken. She knew it couldn't possibly be three in the afternoon or the morning, so she rolled over to her bedside table and tapped the screen on her iPhone.

8:07 AM.

Taking in a shaky breath, Mandi slowly lifted her other hand from under the covers.

Thank goodness, she thought. The red string still coiled around her ring finger, glowing just like it had when she'd first seen it.

She didn't waste a moment to find out where the other end led.

Dressed in only her thin nightgown, Mandi flipped out of bed and followed the scarlet thread that snaked its way to the door, somehow way longer than she'd remembered. Her heart began to throb in her chest, rapping against her bones like a beggar pleading for good news.

The red string brought her to the kitchen, where a pale, slightly-transparent Blake was flipping pancakes.

Mandi rushed to his side, throwing her arms around his waist.

"Whoa, hey," he chuckled as he set the spatula down. His arms received her, hands brushed along her spine. "Good morning, sleepy."

"Good morning," Mandi said, pressing her nose into his strangely non-warm, black-suited body. She inhaled deeply. He smelled of cotton and something flowery. Like a cloud, Mandi concluded.

Blake continued cooking the pancakes, flipping one and then stroking Mandi's back as though dividing attention between two needy children.

After a while, Mandi finally turned her head, ear pressed to his chest. She knew that she shouldn't expect to hear a heartbeat, but she still listened for one.

A few seconds passed.

As she thought, there was no sound.

She watched as Blake swept the last of the chocolate-chip flapjacks onto a plate, now stacked high with too many to count.

They walked over to the table together, Mandi still stretched around her husband like a lemur as he carefully maneuvered the plate around her and onto the small kitchen table.

Blake pulled out a chair. Mandi sat down.

"Care for some syrup, my love?" he asked, looking at her under bushy brown eyebrows. Slightly less brown now that she could see the different shapes and colors of the kitchen through them.

Mandi nodded. "Yes, and some orange juice, please."

Blake grinned, a crescent moon pulling the corners of his lips. "Coming right up."

As he retrieved two short glasses from the cupboard and popped the fridge open to grab a bottle of pulpy Tropicana, Mandi watched the steady wiggling of the red thread.

It grew taut when they were close, and lengthened when they were further apart. How fascinating it was to see how it changed.

Blake gently set the half-filled glasses on the hardwood table, then reached across for Mandi's hand. She slid her fingers into his palm and they prayed aloud over the meal.

The couple hadn't been extremely religious when he'd been alive, but prayer was something they'd gotten used to practicing. It was quite comedic, a ghost and his wife praying over a steaming plate of brown speckled cakes.

"Amen," Blake interjected with a cough. Mandi smirked and repeated his closing statement, then they both gripped their pancakes like cavepeople and took large, crater-like bites.

"I'b gonna bee chu," Mandi snickered, her mouth filled with melted chocolate and pancake fluff.

Blake swallowed, a glint of a challenge appearing in his veiled eyes. "We'll see about that."

The two scarfed down the entire plate. Mandi's stomach expanded as it should when one eats ten pancakes, but Blake's remained the same size.

The winner was clear.

Mandi rubbed her stomach and groaned. "You didn't have to go that hardcore, man."

Her husband glided around the table to her, grabbed her hand, and pulled her from her chair. A goofy grin stretched from cheek to cheek.

"Dee," he laughed, "this means I can finish all your leftovers, without consequences. Isn't that great?"

Mandi ignored what felt like pounds of pancake batter rumbling in her stomach. She smiled back at him, then burped with her mouth closed.

Blake chuckled and pulled her closer, nuzzled his nose against hers, and rested his hands on the small of her back.

Then they simply looked at each other. Neither could believe that they were seeing the other, nor could they believe they'd just enjoyed an abominable number of pancakes together.

But one thing was clear—Blake was right in front of her. Not alive, but present. It would be a while before Mandi fully grasped this reality, but it wasn't one she'd ever refuse.

She glanced around her husband's back, at the glowing red string that miraculously managed to stay untangled, dangling from her finger and looping behind her to where Blake's hands were.

As she admired the beauty of the thread, she realized that all of this had been fated to happen. His death, his return to her, these pancakes, this Saturday morning.

Which meant she didn't need to worry. As long as this red string tied them together, they should encounter no problems.

With this thought in mind, Mandi continued holding her husband tight, knowing that even if she let go, he wouldn't be going anywhere.

She couldn't imagine a more comforting thought.