Present

Emma's pulse spiked for a moment as the memory of that night resurfaced, too sharp to ignore. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself, watching Oliver disappear down the corridor.

Inside his office, Oliver shut the door behind him, exhaling as he ran a hand through his hair. Emma was a nice girl, sure, but he had never intended to sleep with her. It had happened anyway.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the weight of too many ghosts pressing on his chest that night. Either way, she had made it easy—telling him to forget, brushing it off as if it had meant nothing. He should have felt guilty, but instead, he only felt relief.

His stomach growled as he reached his desk, the hunger clawing at his insides. The mess of paperwork scattered across the surface made him sigh. He had neglected his work for days, and now the consequences stared back at him in ink and unfinished reports.

The office was small but functional—large enough to hold an imposing dark-wood desk, a computer, and a well-worn leather chair. A bookshelf stood to the side, half-filled with manuals and a few untouched novels. Against the opposite wall sat a modest two-seat couch with a small table in front of it. The walls, once white, had yellowed slightly with time, making the space feel older than it was.

Oliver sank into his chair, pressing the power button on his computer. The machine whirred to life, the low hum filling the quiet room. A soft knock interrupted the stillness.

He glanced up. "Yeah?"

The door cracked open, and Emma peeked inside. Her dark ponytail shifted as she tilted her head, the scent of fresh coffee and ham drifting in with her.

"I assume you haven't had breakfast," she said, stepping inside with a tray balanced in her hands.

Oliver furrowed his brows. "You didn't have to do that." His voice was gruff, eyes narrowing as he studied her.

Emma just rolled her eyes, waving a dismissive hand. "Oh, don't worry, it's not like I made it." She set the tray down in front of him with a practiced ease.

He exhaled, placing a hand over his chest in gratitude. "Thank you."

Lowering his gaze, he stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee, watching the granules dissolve. He took a slow sip, letting the bitterness settle on his tongue. Emma lingered by his desk, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her fingers worrying at the hem of her apron.

Oliver ignored the tension in the air, pulling a spoon from the tray and bringing it to his mouth. Emma bit her lower lip, her left leg bouncing in a nervous rhythm. She had lied to him.

She hadn't been drunk that night—not enough to forget. She remembered everything. Not just the feeling of his hands on her skin, but the way his voice had slurred as he mumbled about his sister, the light, the forest. His words had made no sense, yet they had unsettled her. Made her question just how much of Oliver's mind was still intact. His voice snapped her out of it.

"Did you need something else?" He placed the spoon down, his gaze pinning her in place.

Emma blinked, realizing she had been staring. "No, I—" She cleared her throat. "I should get back to work." She turned quickly, disappearing out the door before he could respond.

Oliver watched her go, then picked up the sandwich from the tray. He had just taken a bite when a familiar voice cut through the quiet.

"I thought she'd never leave."

Oliver didn't even flinch. He chewed slowly, barely acknowledging the woman who stepped out from behind the bookshelf.

Ann.

Her presence flickered, just slightly translucent, her form wavering like a candle's glow.

"Oh, great," he muttered around his food. "You're back."

Ann huffed. "Don't mock me, boy." She crossed her arms, her lips pressing into a pout. "You have no idea how much focus it takes to stay in one place."

That was new. Oliver raised an eyebrow, filing the information away. He had never thought to ask how this worked—never really wanted to know.

His attention drifted. He chewed his sandwich absently, letting Ann's rambling turn into background noise.

His sister.

The thought came suddenly, pressing against his ribs like a weight he couldn't shake. Was this why he had never seen her? Was it because Leah—his dreamer of a sister—was too unfocused to reach him?

No. That didn't make sense. She wouldn't have left without saying goodbye. Would she?

A vision of her corpse surfaced in his mind, cold and lifeless, and he swallowed hard. He had been preparing himself to see her like that again. He knew if she ever came back to him, it wouldn't be as the girl he remembered. It would be as the thing they found in the forest.

Ann's voice pulled him back. "Hey. I'm talking to you, boy!" She waved a pale hand in his face, impatient.

Oliver exhaled sharply, forcing his attention back to her. "What?"

She rolled her eyes. "I said, the box is under the floorboard. Fifteenth plank from your bedroom window. It was loose before the renovations."

His voice came out low, cautious. "How do I explain that to David?" Ann's gaze flickered toward the door. "Ann?" But she was already gone.

The knock at the door came almost immediately after.

Oliver barely had time to process before Emma's voice cut through the room.

"Boss, there's a woman here to see you."

"Who?" Oliver raised an eyebrow, swallowing the last bite of his sandwich and chasing it down with a sip of coffee. The warmth did nothing to ease the sudden tension in his chest.

Emma stepped aside, allowing a woman to enter the office.

Strawberry-blonde waves cascaded past her shoulders, longer than he remembered, reaching her slim waist. Subtle makeup highlighted her high cheekbones and full lips, but her eyes—those piercing green eyes—widened the moment they landed on him.

Mia.

Oliver's heart stalled. She looked almost the same. Time had softened her edges, but the essence of her remained untouched. He shoved back his chair, rising too quickly. Pain shot through his knee as it struck the desk, but he barely noticed. The sandwich tumbled from his hand, forgotten on the plate.

"Mia," her name escaped him, barely above a whisper.

"Hi, Oli." Her voice was soft, nostalgic. "I heard what happened."

She stepped forward, and Oliver instinctively moved toward her, meeting her just beside the small couch. The moment her arms wrapped around him, he was gone—thrown back into memories he had spent years burying. Her hands pressed against his shoulder blades, warm and firm, while his own found their familiar places: one on the back of her head, the other on her waist.

The scent of her perfume filled his lungs, overtaking the lingering smell of coffee and ham in the office. He inhaled deeply, letting himself drown in the familiarity for just a moment too long. By the door, Emma watched, her expression unreadable. As soon as Oliver and Mia pulled apart, Emma quietly closed the door behind her, slipping away with more questions than before.

Oliver barely noticed. His gaze dropped to Mia's hand, fingers curled gently around his own. The touch sent an uncomfortable jolt through him.

It was too familiar.

Too easy.

And then he saw it. A gold ring gleamed on her finger, catching the dim light of the office. His grip loosened immediately.

"You got married." His voice was flat, but the weight in his chest pressed deeper.

Mia followed his gaze, then lifted her hand slightly, the band glinting. "Yes, Oli. Two years now." She smiled—not shy, not regretful, just matter-of-fact. "I thought you knew."

Oliver stepped back, lowering himself into his chair. "No." He shook his head slowly, processing. "Nobody told me that." A hollow chuckle escaped him. "But it's been seven years since you left. So I guess it makes sense." Bitterness laced his words, but he didn't care to hide it.

Mia hesitated before sitting down on the couch, crossing her legs. "How have you been?" Her tone softened, almost apologetic.

Oliver scoffed. "How have I been?" He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Well, my sister was murdered. My grandmother died. And the love of my life bailed on me after finding out the truth about who I am." He leaned back, crossing his arms, eyes locked onto her.

Mia flinched, but her voice remained steady. "That's not fair, Oli."

"Oh, isn't it?"

"Put yourself in my place," she pleaded.

"I did." His voice was quieter now, but sharp. "For seven years, Mia." He forced down the emotions clawing their way up, smoothing his expression into something unreadable. "But you're married now. And life goes on, right?" He turned his chair slightly, rocking back and forth just enough to keep his hands occupied.

Mia exhaled, rising to her feet. "I didn't come here to fight. I came to say my condolences—for Leah and Mary."

Oliver studied her for a moment. "Why are you back?"

She hesitated. "To help my mom sell the house."

He tilted his head. "She's moving?"

"To Florida. To live with us." Mia's fingers brushed over the curve of her stomach, a gesture so brief Oliver almost missed it.

His eyes flicked back to her hand. Flat stomach. Wedding ring. Careful touch. It wasn't hard to put the pieces together.

His elbows rested against the desk, fingers lacing together. "Are you happy?" The question landed between them like a weight.

Mia held his gaze, then nodded. "I am, Oli." Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. She stood up. "I should go. I just wanted to see you." And just like that, she turned toward the door.

Oliver clenched his jaw. He felt it—everything he had tried to forget. The years of heartbreak, the nights spent wondering where she was, who she was with, whether she ever thought of him at all. And now, she was here.

Married.

Pregnant, probably.

She seemed happier without him. He had never let anyone else in the way he let her. Not after her. Not after what it had done to him. But she was already gone, stepping through the threshold.

Oliver pushed to his feet. "Let me walk you out."

They moved through the restaurant in silence, reaching the entrance. A cool breeze brushed against Oliver's skin as they stepped outside. Mia paused just in front of the establishment, hesitating. Slowly, she extended her hand toward him—just a small gesture, the barest attempt at connection.

Oliver took a step back, shoving his hands into his pockets. His head dipped, gaze fixed on his shoes.

Mia sighed. "I could've handled the news better."

Oliver lifted his eyes, meeting hers. "Did you believe me?" Her expression shifted, unreadable.

"I don't know what I believe," she admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I just know I regret leaving—the way I did." She hesitated, voice quieter now. "Did you see him? After that night?"

Oliver's stomach twisted. His expression didn't change. "Yes."

Mia's breath hitched. Her green eyes widened slightly. "You did?"

Oliver nodded, his voice steady. "Just once."

Mia's throat bobbed as she swallowed. "What happened to him?"

"I don't know, Mia." Oliver shook his head, frustration tightening his jaw.

"That's why it's hard to believe you, Oli." She mirrored his gesture, shaking her head, disbelief etched across her delicate features. "You say you can see—" She glanced around, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Ghosts." Oliver didn't flinch at the word, but she still looked at him like he was delusional. "But you don't know what happened to my dad."

His fingers curled into fists. "I was right about him being dead, though."

"Yes—but that doesn't mean—"

Oliver exhaled sharply, the weight of the conversation pressing down on him like it had seven years ago. The same cycle. The same words.

"We don't have to talk about this," he said, his tone clipped. "You don't believe me. I get it." He pressed his palm flat against his chest. "You didn't believe me then, and I'm not about to repeat myself now. Go live your life, Mia—confident in the fact that I'm insane." He motioned toward the street, dismissing her.

But before she could turn away, Oliver's gaze locked onto hers, a slow squint narrowing his eyes.

"But just so you know," he said, voice low, steady. "Your dad wanted to make amends with you and your mom. And for the last seven years, he's probably been staying close to her."

Mia stiffened. "You can't know that."

Oliver let out a dry laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Mia, hun—he was the one who told me you left that night. I tried to chase after you, but you were already gone."

"I—"

"You saw me run after the car," he murmured, his head tipping downward. "I know you did."

Mia swallowed hard, taking a shaky step back. "I'm sorry, Oli. I shouldn't have come here. This was a mistake."

Oliver's jaw clenched. "Then why did you?"

She hesitated, her lips parting as if searching for an answer. "Maybe to get closure," she admitted. "But I can see that won't happen." She exhaled, shaking her head. "I loved you. I really did. But I think you have a slight mental problem."

Oliver scoffed, a humorless chuckle escaping him. "Bye, Mia." He placed his palm on his chest again. "I already got my closure."

Without another word, he turned and walked inside, leaving her standing on the sidewalk. His pulse hammered against his ribs, and he wasn't sure why.

As he moved toward his office, Emma appeared out of nowhere, nearly colliding into him with an empty tray balanced in one hand. The restaurant still buzzed with patrons, the clatter of dishes and hum of conversation filling the air.

"Sorry," she muttered, barely looking at him.

Oliver frowned. "Are you working alone?" She nodded, stepping behind the bar.

"Where's Sara?" His brow lifted.

"Her son got sick. She couldn't come in today."

Oliver exhaled through his nose. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Emma finally looked at him then, her expression unreadable. "You had a guest, boss." Her tone was sharp, and controlled.

He studied her for a moment, noticing the way she kept her gaze a fraction lower than usual. Avoiding eye contact. Without another word, he grabbed an apron, a notepad, and a pen.

"Which sections can I take?"

Emma gestured to the tables. "You're the boss. Pick whatever you want."

"I'll take those three." He motioned to a group of newcomers settling in. "And the ones in the back." Emma gave a curt nod, and they split up.

By the time the last table cleared and the restaurant emptied, Emma wiped down the counters while Oliver caught up on paperwork. The night had dragged on longer than expected, exhaustion setting into his bones.

When they finally stepped outside, Emma locked the front door while Oliver lingered behind her. She barely turned before he reached out, catching her wrist.

"She's my ex-girlfriend," he said, his voice steady as he searched her face.

Emma tilted her chin slightly, her features unreadable under the dim glow of the streetlight. "You don't have to explain, remember?"

But something in her voice—something off—made Oliver hesitate. The dim lighting didn't do her justice, shadowing her in a way that made her sadness harder to pinpoint, harder to define.

His thumb brushed absentmindedly against the inside of her wrist, tracing slow, absentminded circles. "I know." His gaze flickered downward before he released her.

"She's the one who got away?" Oliver's brows pulled together. He lifted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "You talked about her—that night," she added.

His stomach twisted. "You remember more than you let on, Emma."

She let out a breathy laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Doesn't matter." She waved him off. "Good night, boss."

And just like that, she turned and walked away, heading down the dimly lit street. Oliver stood there, watching her retreat. Something gnawed at his gut, a feeling he couldn't quite place. His fingers absently brushed over his stomach, the unease settling in.

Then, just as Emma reached the old movie theater next door, he saw it. A flicker beside her. His breath hitched. Oliver squinted, his body going rigid as his eyes adjusted to the shadowed figure. A tall, lean man in his sixties.

His stomach dropped.

His fingers curled into his hair, gripping hard. "Shit," he muttered under his breath, the word barely audible.