It’s been two years since the accident.
Since the rain never stopped pounding in his ears.
Since the sirens faded. Since your hand slipped from his in the dark. Since the light in his world flickered and vanished in a single blink on a blood-slicked road.
You were gone.
And he stayed behind.
Drinking to forget. Cursing the ceiling until his voice broke. Living in the ruins of what used to be laughter and toothpaste kisses and sleepy mornings in bed with you tracing lazy circles on his chest.
They called it grief.
But grief wasn’t the right word.
Grief implies you can heal.
This was ruin.
He didn’t leave the house for months. Didn’t answer calls. Didn’t eat unless the guilt gnawed hard enough. Just whiskey, silence, and the smell of your sweater crumpled on his pillow.
Your side of the bed remained untouched.
Even the mug you last drank from—he never moved it.
As if moving it meant you had really left.
You died instantly, they said. The car that hit you ran a red light. You were supposed to meet him for dinner that night. He had even brought flowers. Lilies. Your favorite.
You were wearing that grey coat he always said made you look like “a painting come to life.”
He still dreams of that coat.
Still hears your voice in empty rooms.
But it wasn’t just dreams.
Because you never left.
Your soul stayed.
Not angry. Not vengeful.
Just watching him. Quietly. Like you used to when he read books in bed and didn’t realize you’d been staring for an hour.
He was your whole heart.
And now… you were his ghost.
You had a task.
A reason to remain.
You couldn’t rest until he let you go.
And for two long years, you watched him break.
Until someone else watched too.
A god—not cruel, not kind—took pity.
“You may speak to him,” the god said. “You may touch him. Just once. Make him remember life. And then come home.”
It’s night when it happens.
He’s on the floor in your old apartment. Sitting with his back against the wall beneath your wedding photo. The whiskey’s long gone, the bottle empty beside him. His legs are numb. He hasn’t moved in hours. His hand trembles as he touches the picture frame, voice hoarse and cracking.
“I don’t know how to do this without you.”
“I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
The room is dark, except for the flicker of streetlight against the windowpane.