WARNING: This story contains depictions of violence, gore, and mental health crises that may be upsetting for some readers. Any depictions of mental health issues herein are not meant as a replacement for medical care. If you or someone you know deals with similar issues, they should seek the help of a medical professional. Reader discretion is advised.

In ten minutes, the sun would freeze me.

Morning fog clung to the hard surface of my body, turning it dark. Like the shadows swathing the nearby trees. Like the rain that had splattered my face for decades, forever imprinting a cascade of black tears down my cheeks.

Crouching behind a shed, I eyed the groundskeeper of Willow Hills Cemetery, an old man by the name of Charlie Jack. He unlocked the front gates and pried apart the large wings of rusted iron, casting aside the chain, opening a world full of color and life I would never see.

A twig snapped underneath my granite foot.

Dirge, my gargoyle companion, growled as Charlie Jack surveyed the trees where I hid inside a thick patch of brambles. Hunkering down to the earth, I held him in my arms.

"Anyone out there?" Charlie Jack's voice echoed over headstones. He pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted.

Please don't come closer.

I didn't breathe.

Not that I needed to.

Dirge wrapped his stone claws around my ankle. His nails slid into the crack in my left leg. He gave a half-gurgled whimper and hugged the damp earth.

My time to roam was up. If I didn't make it back and the sunlight touched my body, it would expose what I truly was: a slab of cold, hard rock—a living statue forever imprisoned by shadows.

"Let's go, Dirge."

At my order, Dirge made a run for it, causing two large bushes to quiver as he passed. I chased after him, feet thumping on leaves and decay, slicing through the thick morning fog. Trees ahead gave way to the clearing that held our oldest gravestones. There, the Watchers of Willow Hills Cemetery stood at attention, a forest of moving, grinding statues preparing for the day.

Never forget your stance, Gretta, Maria, the lead Watcher of Willow Hills would say. If you change your position, the living will take notice.

Her words propelled me forward.

The large bell hanging over the south mausoleum tolled the first tune of six. Concrete doves flew over my head with clacking wings. They landed on the centerpiece of the cemetery, Maria. She held her arms out as they perched, her peaceful face looking up at the sky as it had for nearly a hundred years.

At night, we were free to roam and follow the spirits inside the gates of Willow Hills. It was our duty. We were to see to it that they crossed over. But the spirit I guarded didn't give a damn.

Her name was Quinn Rivera. She was a soul who manifested as soon as she was buried. She never roamed, but stayed in her resting place and ignored everything. Including me. Including her friends from her high school who came to place flowers on her grave.

Including her own brother.

A sliver of sunlight shot across the graveyard, stopping me in place as it flashed a few inches from my nose. I dodged it, running to Quinn's grave, hopping on my post in time. From across the clearing, Dirge climbed on top of the gate closing off Willow Hills. His canine mouth opened in defiance. When sunlight poured over every curve and crevice of him, he froze.

I let my head fall and my arms spread. The last thing I saw before the sunlight touched me was Quinn's furrowed brow as her ghostly face peeped out from her grave. Her eyes widened, a strip of white around muddy amber. Startled, I wanted to ask what was wrong, but I had to close my eyes.

The sun splashed over me like a bucket of buttery gold, locking my body in place. A few hours later, crunching grass pulled me out of my meditative state. I could only wish to fall asleep.

What would it be like to dream?

"... I need a moment alone, please."

I'd heard that voice before—it belonged to one of Quinn's family members. Her brother, Jason.

Footfalls stopped in front of me. Somebody dug into the grass and shoved something into Quinn's grave. More plastic substitutes, probably. I wanted to see real flowers. Life. Vibrancy. Not death, bones, and decay.

"We'll be back in the car," another voice replied in a clipped tone. "We have to pick up your friend by noon."

"He can wait."

I wanted, so badly, to open my eyes. To see the boy. To see the world alive. Although moving in the sunlight was hard, it wasn't impossible if I concentrated. But it was also against the rules. To break the rules would mean facing Death.

Death was the cruelest spirit imaginable.

"Quinn," Jason breathed.

She stirred in her grave. Her ghostly fingers latched onto my legs as she pulled herself up from her resting place. In my head, she struggled to remain calm. Sometimes, I could grasp an idea of what my charge was feeling and thinking, but only rarely when she wasn't blocking me out.

She shuddered against me. I pictured her black-rimmed eyes squinting into the beautiful sun I never got to see.

His voice trembled. "Quinn?"

I wanted to move my arms and comfort her if she would have it. The more time she spent ignoring me, the more I was positive she hated my non-existent guts.

"You came to visit me on our birthday? How depressing and so Jason," an irritated voice answered. "Always the sap, huh? You should be out celebrating another year alive. Not crying over me."

Shock vibrated through my stone frame at the sound of her voice. It was full of sarcasm and anger. My eyes flew open.

Oh no.

I almost sighed in relief when I wasn't noticed.

Jason's eyes brimmed with moisture. Seeing him up close tugged at an ancient memory. Had I seen him before? Other than the time he attended her funeral? His face. I felt like I'd seen it in somebody else—in another person other than Quinn.

She sat on her grave, black boots crossed, glaring at the vulnerable boy kneeling with his head down. Bruises dotted her skin—cuts crisscrossed her legs, exactly how they did when she died. Her pallor lips were tinged blue, a sign of rot. Spirits always remained the same.

I studied the two of them, surprised at their similarities, even with their difference in apparel. She wore all black, he wore off-white. They had the same full lips, the same dimples, and the same eyes. They were nearly copies of one another.

Twins. Of course.

"We miss you like crazy, Quinn. Sometimes I think this is all my fault."

"My death was not your fault." Quinn sighed. "It was mine."

Quinn must've known the living couldn't hear her, but it didn't stop her from trying. She ran a hand over her shaved head. Her hair had been chopped to the skin. It was poorly done, like somebody furiously hacked at it as if it insulted them. Why did she cut her hair like that?

She smiled, but it wasn't happy. "You look like dog shit, Jason. The sun-dried variety."

She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She put her wispy, bluish lips to his ear and took in a ragged breath. "It sucks rocks being here. It's so cold and boring. Don't spend the rest of your life thinking it was your fault. Please. You need to know this, so we can be together, on the other side one day. Not like this."

Jason shook his head, his face dejected, almost as if he had heard her.

Every day, the living came to grieve, and I paid no attention. This time, however, was different. My stone heart felt like somebody had chiseled little bits from the center, like an egg void of yolk.

Somebody yelled out of the car window, "Jason, it's time to go already, bud!"

I eyed the vehicle. A gangly boy, perhaps a few years older than Jason, stuck his brown head out of the car's window and waved his arms. He sported a stained white shirt and a cocky smile. Irritation soared. He shouldn't pressure Jason to end his visit. Neither should Quinn.

Maybe I secretly didn't want him to leave, either.

"I've got to go, sis."

Quinn stole my words. "No! Don't leave!"

She reached for him, pleading, but her arms went right through him. When Jason gazed up at me, he flinched. My granite throat almost squeezed shut.

I was staring right at him.

"I could have sworn..." he whispered.

He studied my face. With a swift movement, he reached to touch my cheek with his fingers. Heat gathered inside me, threatening to boil over at his touch. His fingers were warm. Almost hot. Other than the sunlight, warm was rare.

The urge to reach out and touch him left my thoughts cloudy. His eyes, that were not much different from his sister's, were full of wonder.

Jason left. Quinn followed him but stopped when he opened the car door, jumped inside, and slammed it shut. The car sped away, throwing gravel, chipping my nose with a peanut-sized rock. It didn't hurt the least bit. A stone body couldn't feel pain.

At least, not the way a human would.

Quinn balled her hands into fists and quivered, looking as if she would crumble in a mere matter of seconds. Her anguish leaked everywhere; dripping onto the grass, pooling at her feet in red blobs of fog. Her black skirt billowed in tatters around her waist like it was dancing.

"Quinn," I whispered.

She turned slowly, her eyes narrowed. The angel statue beside me, Angelica, shushed me under her breath. A human would mistake the shush as the wind.

"What do you want?" Quinn snapped.

I almost flinched. I tried to turn my head, but the sunlight wouldn't let me make such a drastic movement. It was hard to move in the light, like every ray of yellow was a chain, restraining me to the dirt. I could, however, will my lips to move if I concentrated hard enough.

"I've seen him before. Last year. In August. The day you—"

"Shh!" Angelica hissed. "Maria will hear!"

Quinn ignored her. "The day I was buried. I know."

"You ignored him at your funeral. You are angry about him visiting," I pointed out, ignoring Angelica. All-too-perfect, never-stray-from-your-lane Angelica. She never broke the rules, but neither did I. Perhaps it was bad enough that I dreamed of breaking them...

The irritation practically shimmered in the air around Quinn. Why isn't she happy he came to see her?

"Funerals are boring. And yeah, I'm angry. He decides to visit today of all days."

"But today is your birthday, too."

I knew the date etched into my base more than my own birthday, only I was carved and not born. November thirteenth. Friday the thirteenth. I was sure that meant something to the living.

Her jaw twitched. "He chose his birthday to visit his dead sister. It's messed up. Birthdays are for celebrating another year alive."

If I could have, I would have frowned.

"I was waiting for him to come and see me eventually," she went on. "Then, when he does, I find out he blames himself for what happened to me? I can't believe it! This is all wrong. This is all wrong!"

I didn't respond. I wasn't sure how to. What could I say?

"You want me to talk to you, right? To get me to cross over—to get me to meditate and forget the past. Well, it won't work. Some people just can't forget."

"Give it time. Give me time. Give yourself time," I grunted, as it was getting increasingly difficult to talk now. At any moment, my remaining bits of energy would be spent, and I would be silent until the sun surrendered to its pale counterpart.

She laughed, but it wasn't a sound of amusement. "I can't pass like other people can. I'm sure of it."

Then what could I do? For a soul to cross over, they needed to be protected. They needed to open up. They needed to gain as much energy as they could to let the past go.

I stared at her. "What do you mean, you can't cross over?"

"I mean I'm different. You wouldn't understand."

Did I understand? I tasted her emotional field. It was hotter, brighter than any I'd ever experienced. Was she different? If so, in what way?

"I don't see how you should care about me, though. You should've let the Reapers eat me for breakfast long ago."

Embarrassment made me want to drop my head. If I were a good Watcher, I would've sat beside her until she decided to talk. But I didn't. I did other things. Other stupid, meaningless things that would never get me past those gates or help her.

I wasn't allowed to leave the cemetery. Sometimes, despite myself, I would stare at the gates of Willow Hills, wishing for them to be open to me the way they were for the living. Everything beyond those metal bars saddened me. I would never get to see the world, be a normal person, see what life had to offer...

You can't even do your job right.

Anger gave me a boost of vigor to let my feelings rush out.

"I'm sorry." I painted the irritation on thick. "But I can't meddle in the affairs of the living. And the Reapers are on the edges of Willow Hills and outside the gates. You never left your place—you were safe anyway."

She snorted. "I don't like being babysat."

"We are not allowed to handle things physically—"

"I get it, I get it. Meditate, accept the past, get over it, and cross over. But is it really that easy? Is that all you want to do? Follow me around to make sure I don't get eaten by demon dogs, hoping I go into the light? Give me a break. I know you want out of here, too."

"How do you know?"

"I've been watching you more than you've been watching me."

She'd watched me?

Well, I suppose it wasn't that surprising. My ogling at the entrance must have been pretty obvious—that, and I was the only one here who walked up and down the cemetery, playing games with Dirge, pretending. Pretending I knew how true happiness felt. How true freedom felt.

How could she know me so well?

"To top it off, you aren't even my headstone. They found you in the grass by the creek a few days before my burial. They glued you on my marker to be my 'guardian angel', because Dad is a sucker for antiques. Don't you have somebody else to look after? Plenty of ghosts around, so pick another dead person."

I wanted to shake my head. I was far from a guardian angel. We protected the dead we were assigned to, nothing more. I grunted between my clenched teeth, sure that if they gnashed any harder, they would crumble like chalk.

The memory of Jason's face came to mind. I located the source of déjà vu tugging at my thoughts from earlier. My previous charge, Allen Wilbur. A boy who had perished in a house fire. A boy whom I missed. A boy who was no longer a prisoner on earth, who reminded me of Quinn's brother so much...

"My previous charge crossed over long ago. A storm removed me from his resting place. When they put me on your grave, it brought me back to life."

Realization dawned in her eyes, but a hint of irritation made them flare like candles. "I know that's what you were made to do—to look after us. To help us find peace. I know you did it once, but that doesn't mean you can do it with me."

"You shouldn't say things like that. Our existence is for your protection."

She shook her head, floating toward me, her face close to mine. The heat pouring off her was enough to unsettle the most collected person on the planet. Her dark eyes glittered, her lips set into a half-smile.

"Whatever. I don't need your help. Don't even talk to me, okay? Just leave me alone and let the Reapers crack my skull and slurp my brains for breakfast."

Just as I was about to reach out—if I even could—she sank into the earth, curling into a ball in her casket. Her aura retracted and she reverted to a slumber-like state, growing dormant. My chest grew cold—colder than normal—while she sobbed quietly.

"Jason," she whispered. "I'll find a way to talk to you and make this right. No matter what it takes."

I'm sorry, Quinn, but that isn't possible.

I closed my eyes.