Five years ago

Oliver had been staying at his grandmother's house since his vacation began. Nana's home had always felt more like a sanctuary than his father's house, and James never put up much of a fight about Oliver's choice.

His room, though spacious, felt gloomier than usual. A pale sliver of moonlight dripped in through a crack in the window's seal, casting eerie shadows against the black furniture—a large bed, nightstands flanking each side, a tall wardrobe, a sturdy desk, and a chair tucked neatly beneath it.

That deceivingly quiet winter night, Oliver lay curled under his blanket when a familiar sensation crept over him—a tickle deep in his belly, like an unseen hand reaching through him. A chill spread across his skin. His breath hitched. Instinctively, he bolted upright in bed, scanning the dimly lit room.

"Sleep, my boy. You're going to need it," a gentle voice cooed.

Oliver's eyes widened as he turned toward the familiar figure standing by his bed. She wore a white nightgown, her silvery hair braided loosely over one shoulder.

"Nana," he whispered, his throat tightening. He blinked and turned to the glowing digits on the nightstand's clock. "It's the middle of the night." He rubbed at his face, as if waking up properly would make the sight before him less surreal.

"I know, honey," Mary said softly. "Sleep. I'll wait until morning."

But Oliver knew better. The weight in his chest turned to something sharp and jagged as realization took hold. His gaze lingered on her—on the unnatural glow of her presence, on the way the air around her shimmered slightly, like mist caught in the moonlight.

"No... Nana, no—" His voice cracked, breaking under the force of sudden grief. His hands shot up to his head, fingers tangling in his messy curls.

"Oh, honey." She reached out, her hand ghosting over his hair, trying to comfort him the way she always had. But Oliver felt nothing. Her touch didn't reach him anymore.

He rocked back and forth on the bed, his old mattress creaking with each motion. The realization dug its claws in deeper. She was gone. And yet, she was here.

But maybe it wasn't too late. It couldn't be. He could fix this. Oliver threw the blanket off and bolted for the door.

"It's too late, Oli," Mary said, but he didn't listen. He was already running down the corridor, his bare feet slapping against the cold wooden floor. "Oli!" she called again, appearing beside him as he rushed toward the staircase.

"You—don't—know—that," he panted between desperate breaths.

The icy floor sent shivers up his spine, but he didn't care. His entire body hummed with a feverish urgency, driven by the sheer refusal to accept what was happening.

The wooden panels creaked beneath his weight, the walls lined with family portraits seeming to watch as he passed. Shadows stretched unnaturally under the dim glow of the hallway's lone nightlight.

Reaching the stairs, he took them two at a time, nearly tripping as he turned sharply to the right. His grandmother's room stood at the end of the hall. He slammed the door open with such force that the knob dented the green wall behind it. The door bounced back slightly, creaking on its hinges as he stepped inside.

Mary's bed lay undisturbed. She rested under the red blanket, her head tilted to one side, her face serene. Her skin—paler than usual. Her chest—too still.

"No, no, no." Oliver rushed to her side, grabbing her hand. Still warm. He could still save her.

He started CPR, his hands pressing firmly against her chest, his movements desperate and unsteady.

"Nana, come on—" His breaths came out in short gasps. "Please."

"Honey, it's not my heart," her voice echoed beside him, but Oliver didn't stop. "That aneurysm burst."

His hands faltered, shaking. He turned his head to look at her, at her spirit standing beside him, watching with those same kind eyes. "You said—it was nothing—that you'd be fine." His voice barely broke above a whisper.

"I lied," she admitted, her voice tinged with sadness. "I didn't want you to worry."

Oliver turned back to her body and continued compressions. Over and over. His arms burned, his palms ached, but he refused to stop. Mary begged him to let go, but he wouldn't.

He couldn't.

He had to try.

Minutes passed. Maybe more. His strength gave out before his will did. His movements slowed and grew weaker until finally, they stopped altogether. His chest heaved as he slumped beside her, his forehead pressing against her still arm.

"What now?" he croaked, his voice raw with exhaustion and grief. His glassy eyes barely focused on her spirit.

"You know who to call and what to do, honey. You should do it," Mary said softly, gesturing to the phone on the nightstand.

"Did it hurt?" A furrow deepened between his brows.

"No, sweetheart," she murmured, her voice like a gentle breeze. "It was quiet." She reached for his hand again—out of habit, perhaps—but of course, she couldn't hold him anymore. Oliver swallowed the lump in his throat and reached for the phone.

By noon, Mary's house stood empty. The paramedics had taken her body, their voices low, their movements efficient but impersonal. Oliver stayed with her until the last possible moment, unwilling to let go, his chest hollow as they carried her away.

Leah arrived as soon as she heard the news, breathless and pale. James had taken over the funeral arrangements, making the necessary calls, signing papers, and handling the logistics of death. And when everything settled—when there was nothing left to organize, nothing left to do—they left the kids alone in Mary's house.

The kitchen felt too big, too quiet. Oliver sat at the gray kitchen island, perched on a high chair, his elbows digging into the cool marble surface. His hands clutched his curls, fingers buried deep as if he could press the grief away.

Leah busied herself making sandwiches, the only thing she could think to do. The rhythmic motion of spreading butter, layering slices of ham, cutting diagonally—it was something to focus on. Something normal. She placed a plate near Oliver's elbow before turning on the coffee machine. The slurping sound filled the vast space, an odd contrast to their silence.

Leah reached up, taking two white cups from the cupboard. "Oli, you should eat something." Her voice was gentle, cautious. She wanted to take care of him.

Oliver barely moved, shaking his head, a refusal without words.

"You really should," a familiar voice added.

His breath hitched. "Finally," he muttered, lifting his head. His tired gray eyes scanned the room. "Where have you been?"

Leah froze mid-motion, coffee cup in hand. "She's here?" A small, almost hopeful smile tugged at her lips as she placed the mug in front of him.

"Yeah." Oliver squinted slightly, focusing on Mary's silvery essence as she moved toward him.

"You needed time to accept it," Mary said softly. "So I left you alone. But now I need your help."

Oliver scoffed, pushing his chair back. "No. You're staying." His tone was firm, stubborn.

Leah's grip tightened around her coffee cup. "What is she saying?" She had always been fascinated by her brother's ability, but it never failed to send a shiver down her spine.

"She wants my help. She wants to go into the light." The words felt like knives on his tongue.

Leah exhaled, nodding slowly. "That's what you're supposed to do, Oli. Help people find the light."

"Well, I'm not doing it." He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the tile floor.

Leah barely had time to react before Oliver stormed out of the kitchen, leaving her alone in the cavernous space.

She glanced around, the silence thick. She knew more about the spirit world than Oliver sometimes gave her credit for—maybe even more than he did. She didn't have the gift, but she had listened. She had been there for every lesson, every warning Mary had ever given. And unlike Oliver, she had paid attention.

She lifted her mug to her lips, murmuring into the rising steam, "Don't worry, Nana. He'll come to his senses. I'll make sure of it." Mary smiled, though Leah couldn't see her. A moment later, she vanished, leaving her grandchildren alone.

Outside, the cold bit at Oliver's skin, but he barely noticed. The garden stretched out before him, quiet and still, a thin layer of snow covering the ground. He paced near the greenhouse, his boots crunching over frozen grass, leaving a trail of disturbed white behind him.

His mind raced. How was he supposed to let her go? How was he supposed to do this alone? Oliver clenched his jaw, frustration twisting inside him. He knew he was being selfish.

He knew that.

But Mary was the only one who truly understood him. She had been his anchor, the one person who never made him feel like a freak. Without her, it felt like the ground beneath him had cracked, and he was teetering on the edge of a drop he couldn't see the bottom of.

And yet—three years ago, he had made a promise. He had sworn to her that when the time came, he would help her find the light. That he wouldn't let her linger. He just hadn't thought the time would come so soon. Oliver exhaled sharply, his breath misting in the cold air.

Mary had spent years preparing him for this, but no amount of preparation could change the way his chest ached at the thought of saying goodbye. He turned his gaze toward the sky, the clouds a soft, shifting gray. He wasn't ready, but he had made a promise.

And he never broke a promise to Nana.

A few days had passed and they laid Mary to rest beside her beloved husband, John. The funeral had been small, and intimate—just a handful of people stood beneath the gray sky as the earth claimed her body. Mary had never been the most social woman in Dover, and even in death, her circle remained small.

Her own daughter hadn't come, Oliver suspected it was Nana's last wish. It was better that way.

Inside the church, the scent of candle wax and faded roses lingered. The mourners had long since departed, their whispered condolences fading like echoes in Oliver's mind. He sat alone in the front pew, staring at the altar, its golden cross gleaming dully in the faint lights. His fingers fidgeted with the frayed sleeve of his black dress shirt.

She hadn't appeared all day. Mary had come to him the night before, soft and silvery, the way she always did. But now, the silence stretched, filling the empty space beside him. He wasn't ready for that silence.

"It was beautiful," Mary's voice broke through his thoughts.

Oliver's breath hitched as he turned. She sat beside him, hands folded in her lap, a small, proud smile on her face.

"She wasn't here," Oliver murmured, running a hand through his unruly curls. "We called her, though."

"I know, honey." Mary glanced toward the altar, her expression wistful.

Oliver followed her gaze, something uneasy curling in his stomach. "No—you're not finished, Nana." He turned to her, eyes searching.

Mary sighed, the sadness in her face far deeper than before. "But I am, honey."

Oliver's stomach dropped. A flicker of light pulsed behind her, faint but growing, and the realization struck him with the force of a punch.

"It wasn't Mom," he whispered. "It was me." His voice cracked.

Mary nodded. "Your eulogy convinced me, Oli. You're strong enough to do this without me."

"No—I can't." Panic shot through him. He grabbed for her hand, but his fingers met only air.

She stood now, moving toward the light. The glow bathed her in warmth, in something unearthly and pure. She was beautiful, more whole than he'd ever seen her in life.

"I can see him, Oli." Her voice wavered. "John. He's waiting for me." Tears welled in her eyes, reflecting the brightness surrounding her.

Oliver's throat tightened. He knew she had longed for this moment, to be with the man she loved. But he wasn't ready to let her go.

"I can't do this without you." His voice was barely above a whisper. He stood beside her, his hands clenched into fists.

Mary reached out, though she couldn't touch him. "The light wouldn't come if that were true." Her gaze softened. "I love you, Oli. And when your time comes, I'll be there. I'll meet you at your light."

A single tear slipped down Oliver's cheek as she lifted her hand, brushing ghostly fingers over his face in a gesture that he couldn't feel—but in his heart, he swore he did.

The light expanded, flooding the altar in a golden glow. Oliver squeezed his eyes shut for just a moment, but when he opened them again, Mary was stepping into the light. She glanced over her shoulder one last time, smiling through her tears. And then—she was gone.

The moment she disappeared, the heavy church doors creaked open. Leah stepped inside, pausing as her gaze landed on her brother. He stood near the altar, arms limp at his sides, his head tilted down. Even from a distance, she could see the tremble in his shoulders.

Then he fell to his knees. A raw, broken sob tore from his throat, echoing through the vast emptiness of the church. Leah ran down the aisle, her boots clicking against the wooden floor. She dropped beside him, wrapping her arms around his shaking body, fingers combing through his damp curls.

"Oli," she whispered, voice thick with emotion.

"She's really gone," he choked out.

Leah swallowed against the lump in her throat. "Did he wait for her?"

Oliver nodded weakly, pressing his forehead against her shoulder. "He did."

Tears slipped down Leah's cheeks, falling into his hair. She tightened her embrace, her own pain momentarily overshadowed by the need to hold her brother together.

"I will never leave," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Oliver lifted his head, his red-rimmed eyes locking onto hers. "Don't say that." His voice was hoarse, his expression haunted.

Leah cupped his face in her hands. "I mean it. I won't leave—not until we can leave together."

A shaky breath escaped Oliver. He held out his pinky. "Promise?"

Leah didn't hesitate. She linked her pinky with his, squeezing tightly. "I promise, Oli."