Present

Oliver rushed into the living room, his breath shallow, his pulse a hammering echo in his ears. Near the window, a faint white glimmer shimmered against the darkened glass. His heart clenched. He knew that glow.

"Leah?" His voice wavered, betraying the mix of hope and fear tightening in his chest.

But the moment the name left his lips, he realized—this wasn't her.

Instead, a woman stood near the window, draped in a faded blue terry bathrobe. The right side of the fabric gaped open, a deep crimson stain staining the soft material. Her hair was cropped short, shorter than Oliver's, and her skin had the same pale translucence they all did. The dead always looked like that—faded, untethered, not quite real.

Her eyes locked onto his. "You can see me?" she asked, her voice edged with hesitation as if she wasn't entirely convinced she existed at all.

Oliver hesitated. He had mere seconds to decide. Acknowledge her, and he risked opening that door again—the one he had slammed shut after Mary's death. Ignore her, and maybe—just maybe—Leah wouldn't come either.

His throat felt dry. It had been nearly four years since he had seen a spirit. He had spent the first year after Mary's passing pretending ghosts didn't exist, willing himself blind to their presence.

He exhaled sharply. "Yes."

Relief flickered across the woman's weary face. "Did you see me before?"

Oliver shook his head. "No. Just now." He narrowed his gaze. "Who are you?"

She sighed as if she had been waiting years for someone to ask. "My name is Ann."

Oliver took a cautious step closer, eyeing the dark stain on her robe. "How long have you been here?"

Ann glanced toward the window, her gaze unfocused, drifting somewhere beyond the present. "I'm not sure," she admitted, voice distant. "My son looks older now." A pause. Then, as if shaking off the fog, she turned to him. "When did you move here, Oliver?"

"Two years ago," he answered, though his mind was elsewhere—still searching, still hoping. Leah. Would she come too?

Ann frowned. "It feels like just yesterday to me." A shadow crossed her face—confusion, sorrow, something deeper.

Oliver had seen this before. "That happens sometimes. When you're..." He hesitated, searching for the least jarring way to say it. "Dead." Ann barely reacted. She simply glanced down at herself, as if seeing the evidence of her death for the first time. Oliver motioned toward the bloodied gap in her robe. "Is that why you're here?"

Her brows furrowed. "No. That resolved quickly—or at least, that's what I understand."

Oliver ran a hand through his curls. "Then why are you here? Didn't you see the light?"

Ann's expression twisted with confusion. "Light?"

Oliver sighed. He had forgotten how lost some of them could be. "Yeah. When you die, there's supposed to be a light. Unless, of course, you have unfinished business here."

Ann took a slow step toward him. "What's in that light?"

Oliver instinctively tensed. Even after years of seeing spirits, it still unsettled him when they moved like that—too fluid, too silent. "It's different for everyone," he explained. "Usually, it's the people you love. The ones you lost, waiting for you."

She was quiet for a long moment, staring past him. "I didn't see that," she admitted. "I was too worried about my son." A faint crease appeared between her brows. "Does that count as unfinished business?"

Oliver nodded. "Yeah. It could be."

Ann exhaled a weary sound. "Then I need your help."

Oliver opened his mouth, ready to respond, but suddenly became painfully aware of his own state of dress—or lack thereof. He glanced down at his bare chest and towel-wrapped torso.

"First, I need to put some damn clothes on," he muttered, running a hand through his hair again.

Ann smirked, tilting her head slightly. "Oh, don't trouble yourself, dear. I've already seen plenty."

Oliver choked on air. "Jesus—" He quickly turned away, pointing a firm finger at her. "You stay here. Do not move." Ann chuckled as he bolted down the hall.

He grabbed the first clothes within reach—a black t-shirt and light-washed jeans—and yanked them on without a second thought. No socks. No time.

As he raked a brush through his curls, Mary's voice echoed in his head, reminding him of everything she had ever taught him about guiding spirits.

When he returned to the living room, Ann hadn't moved. She stood at the window, staring through the open shutters. The eerie stillness in her posture sent a shiver down his spine.

Oliver followed her gaze. Outside, his landlord, David, was beneath the hood of his car, tinkering with something. The sky had darkened, throwing shadows over the driveway. It was an odd time to be working on a car, but then again, David had always struck Oliver as...unusual. Ann continued to watch him, her eyes soft but distant.

Oliver's breath hitched. He pieced it together. "David. He's your son?"

Ann's lips parted slightly before she nodded. "Yes." A wistful sadness crept into her voice. "He's lonely. There's no woman in this house." She turned to Oliver then, her smirk returning. "Well, except for your occasional... adventures."

Oliver's ears burned. "Oh, for fuck's sake." He took a step back, eyeing her warily. "You obviously know more about me than I know about you." He flopped onto the couch, gripping the hairbrush in his hands like it could anchor him. Ann turned fully now, her smile fading. Oliver's gaze met hers, searching. "Ann, how did you die?"

Ann's gaze remained fixed on the window, her expression unreadable. "I've always been a free spirit," she murmured as if speaking more to herself than to Oliver. "Got married young—too young." A pause. Then she let out a bitter chuckle. "Because I got pregnant, and my parents threatened to disown me."

She turned away from the glass, stepping closer to Oliver. He didn't move, just watched her with careful scrutiny. "I didn't love my husband," she admitted, voice heavy with a truth long buried. "And soon after the wedding, I sought comfort elsewhere."

Oliver blinked at her, taken aback by the blunt confession. Ann caught his expression and rolled her eyes.

"Don't judge me, boy. Let's not forget—I've seen everything you've been doing in this house." She twirled her index finger in the air, gesturing toward the walls as if they held all his secrets.

Oliver shrugged, arms crossing over his chest. "I'm not married, though, Ann."

"Well," she sniffed. "I'll just continue my story then." A flicker of embarrassment crossed her face, but she pushed on. "I had a few men on the side. I was careful. Discreet. Until I wasn't."

Ann's story unfolded over the next two hours. Her husband, Trevor, had found out. The betrayal shattered him, and in a blind rage, he grabbed a kitchen knife and ended her life. That night, their son, David, had been out celebrating with his friends, fresh out of college, unaware that his world had already changed forever.

Time was strange for ghosts. Ann wasn't sure how long it had taken to convict Trevor for her murder. She only knew that, at some point, he was gone. Dead. She had seen David hold a small gathering in honor of his father—something quiet, something filled with unspoken grief.

But she had never seen Trevor again after that night. And yet, it wasn't revenge or unfinished rage that kept her tied here. It was David.

"He always dreamed of a big family," Ann said, her voice softer now. "A wife, three or more kids. But look at him. He's alone." Her fingers trembled at her sides. "Every night, he prays for a different life. Different parents. He thinks our blood cursed him."

Oliver frowned. "Cursed him how?"

Ann turned to face him fully. "He's afraid, Oliver. Afraid to be like me—promiscuous, unfaithful. Afraid to be like his father—angry, violent." A long sigh escaped her lips. "But he doesn't know the truth about us." Oliver watched her carefully.

Ann's eyes darkened. "Trevor was infertile. A childhood accident. He married me knowing David wasn't his." She hesitated, swallowing hard. "But he loved my son. Raised him as his own."

Oliver exhaled sharply, rubbing his forehead. "And you never told David."

"I never planned to," Ann admitted. "He adored his father. There was no reason to ruin that." Her voice wavered slightly. "But now... seeing him like this... walking through life alone, lost—he deserves the truth."

Oliver's stomach twisted. "And you want me to tell him." Ann nodded. "He won't believe me," Oliver muttered, scratching the top of his head. His hair had finally dried, though it still clung in unruly waves.

"There's proof," Ann said firmly.

Oliver lifted a brow. "Where?"

"Underneath your bed."

His head snapped toward her. "There's nothing under my bed." He snorted. "Maybe some dust."

Ann exhaled sharply, exasperated. "I had a box—a small one, filled with mementos. I was hoping David would find it when he renovated this space."

Oliver studied her. "Maybe he did. Maybe you missed that part?"

Ann shook her head. "No. It's still there." And then, just like that—she vanished.

Oliver threw his hands up. "Great," he muttered.

He had forgotten how frustrating the dead could be. They never gave straight answers. Never just said what they meant. Dragging a hand down his face, he turned toward his bedroom. The weight of the day pressed down on him, exhaustion sinking into his bones. He needed sleep. Answers could wait.

But as he passed his bathroom, his hand instinctively slipped into his pocket. He pulled out Leah's pendant. The small locket gleamed in the shady light. Gold, old but worn, with an engraved emblem on the front. But the back—Oliver's fingers traced the newly engraved letter 'L.' The metal shimmered with a different hue, newer, rougher.

Leah had never worn this in her life. He was sure of it. Had she bought it just before her trip? Oliver frowned, rolling the pendant between his fingers. He had seen her the day before she left. The police said Leah was never registered for the cruise ship she was supposed to work on. Where the hell had she gone?

Lost in thought, he laid back on the bed, one arm still lifted in the air, staring at the locket. His eyelids grew heavy. His hand slackened, and the pendant dangled between his fingers, swaying slightly.

The room was dark except for the faint glow of the bedside lamp. And just beyond the soft halo of light, a woman stood in the shadows. She watched Oliver with quiet intensity, recognition flickering across her face.

She knew him.

Had seen him before—in Leah's photographs. She parted her lips, trying to call out, but no sound came. A force pulled her back, dragging her away from the warm glow of the room. Her last sight was Oliver, fast asleep, the locket hanging loosely in his hand.

A sudden, hushed sound yanked Oliver from sleep. His eyes snapped open as he instinctively lifted his hands, his pulse still sluggish from slumber. He ducked slightly, glancing over the side of the bed. The medallion lay on the wooden floor, the chain coiled like a broken thread. With a quiet sigh, he leaned down, retrieving it between his fingers.

He slumped back against the pillows, his gaze drifting toward the window.

The bedside lamp was still on, but its weak glow was overtaken by the first streaks of sunrise spilling through the curtains. Pale golden light stretched across the floorboards, casting soft shadows along the walls. Oliver ran a hand over his chin, feeling the roughness of unshaven stubble. He hadn't shaved yesterday. Or the day before.

His eyes flicked to the clock. Too early. Too late. Either way, he groaned and pushed himself up, rolling his shoulders before heading to the bathroom.

The mirror greeted him with a tired reflection—chestnut-brown hair longer than he usually kept it, waves curling near his ears. He ran a hand through the strands, tucking them back before twisting the faucet on. Cold water splashed against his skin, jolting him further awake.

He smeared shaving cream across the sharp angles of his face—his cleft chin, the high cheekbones, the stubborn bristles along his jaw. The razor scraped away the roughness, leaving behind smooth skin.

His gray eyes were bloodshot. He grabbed the eye drops from the cabinet, tilting his head back as the cool liquid stung for a moment before offering relief. A few slow blinks. Then toothpaste on his brush, the rhythmic motion of cleaning his teeth while his mind drifted elsewhere.

Leah's pendant sat on the counter, catching a sliver of the light. Oliver swept his fingers through his hair one last time before stepping out of the bathroom. Soon the scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen. Oliver drank it quickly, the bitterness jolting his senses awake.

He had to drop his car off with Mark today. His best friend had promised to fix the heater—a necessary evil given how the damn thing refused to blow anything but ice-cold air. That meant Oliver would be walking to work. By the time he arrived at Mark's garage, his friend was already waiting.

"I'll take good care of her," Mark said, clapping a grease-stained hand against the car's hood. "You sure you can survive without wheels?"

Oliver smirked. "If I don't show up to work, you'll know I froze to death halfway there."

Mark chuckled and tossed his keys onto the workbench. "Hop in, I'll drop you off."

Fifteen minutes later, Oliver stepped out onto the sidewalk across from the restaurant.

He had worked here for two years. First, as a waiter, climbing his way up to manager. It wasn't a flashy place—nothing high-profile—but it had good ratings, steady customers, and a familiar rhythm he had grown to appreciate.

The exterior was painted a deep burgundy, the building stretching two stories high, though the restaurant occupied only the first floor. Gigantic windows framed the front, reflecting the morning light off their glass panes. Inside, tables were neatly arranged, and the scent of pine-scented cleaner drifted through the air.

Oliver's gaze flickered to a familiar car parked nearby. Emma was back. His stomach tensed slightly. He had managed to avoid her for the last few days, but that streak had just ended. Pushing open the glass door, he stepped inside. The moment he entered, his eyes found her behind the bar.

Emma stood polishing a wine glass, the movement slow and methodical. She looked up, red lips curling into a smile. "Good morning, boss."

Oliver hesitated for half a second before walking toward the bar. "Hey. So... you're back." He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding her gaze for a beat too long.

Emma shifted her weight from one leg to the other, her dark eyes watching him carefully. "I've been back for a few days now," she said, lashes briefly catching on her long bangs. "Look, Oli—"

He lifted a hand. "Don't call me that." His voice was firmer than intended.

She exhaled, looking down at the rag in her grip. "Sorry," she murmured. Then, after a pause, she glanced back up. "I don't expect anything from you." Oliver tensed. "The details are vague for me from that night," she continued, voice steady but unreadable. "So we should just forget about it. Deal?" She gave a small nod as if finalizing the agreement herself.

Oliver held her gaze for a moment longer than he meant to. Then, with a small shrug, he turned on his heel. "As you wish." He took a few steps, then gestured toward the white door at the back. "I'll be in my office."

Emma watched him walk away. Her grip on the glass tightened slightly before she set it down. She could still remember the way her red nails had raked down his back, the way he had held her, breathless, his hands firm against her skin. A flicker of heat curled in her stomach before she exhaled sharply, forcing herself to focus. She had work to do.