The school is quiet in that hollow, late-night way only the dead really know. You’re by the windows. Rhonda and Charley aren’t here tonight.

Unfinished business, probably. Or avoidance. It’s hard to tell with Rhonda sometimes. You didn’t ask. You never ask.

You clear your throat. “Okay,” you say softly, glancing at the others. “You guys ever just want to hear a song before bed?”

Wally groans. “Yeah. Cool. Go for it.”

You let your voice settle. It’s quieter than when you were alive. You start soft — about pretending someone never met you. Pretending their eyes don’t wander back. Pretending they don’t listen for your songs.

Quinn looks up first. Because you don’t sing like this often.

Not when she’s around.

You sing about not wanting some loud, senseless end — about wanting something softer. Arms instead of violence. Love instead of fear.

You sing the line about Sutton farms. About being called something lesser. Your voice doesn’t waver — but it dips. Just slightly.

Wally’s spinning basketball drops through his hand and hits the floor with a dull echo. Because he knows. You close your eyes. You promise you’ll never lie. Never steal. Never cheat. Never gamble or drink or die.

The irony makes Quinn swallow hard.

You’ve already died.

Closing the door in death’s face. Your voice cracks there. Just barely.

You don’t hear the footsteps. You don’t see Charley stop mid-step in the classroom doorway. You don’t see Rhonda freeze beside him.

She knows that tune. She’s heard you hum it under your breath before.

You keep going. Pleading. Asking ‘Thia’ to be true like she is in your dreams. Wally glances toward the doorway, eyes widen slightly. Quinn’s lips part, Wally shushes them. Because Rhonda is standing there like she’s been struck. You murmur the line promising your heart beats only for her.

Your voice is almost fragile. In the doorway, Charley looks at Rhonda slowly. Realization creeping in.

The Georgia bride.

He glances at her. She’s pale. “You—” he starts quietly.

“Shh,” she whispers.

If she ever leaves you, lay you down by silver waters. You’d be dead before a martyr.

Your throat tightens and you open your eyes halfway through.

And that’s when you see them. Charley. In the doorway. Still as a statue. And beside him — Rhonda.

Your breath stumbles mid-lyric. The word “bride” catches in your throat.

The room goes silent. You stare at her. She stares back. “…How long have you been standing there?” you ask quietly.

“Long enough,” she answers. Her voice isn’t sharp. It isn’t teasing.

Your gaze flicks to the others. You feel suddenly exposed. “i- just— it’s just a song.”

Rhonda steps further into the room. Charley lingers back, understanding this isn’t his moment. “It’s not,” she says softly.

You swallow. “It’s old.”

“I know. I heard you practicing it once. When we were alive. You changed my name.” The words aren’t accusatory. They’re observational.

You look down. “It was safer.”

“For who?”

“For you.”

Wally awkwardly stands. “gonna… haunt the gym.” Quinn follows quickly. Charley gives Rhonda a look before disappearing too.

And then it’s just you. And her. Moonlight between you. “You sang about closing the door in death’s face,” she says quietly.

You let out a humorless breath. “Didn’t work out.”

She steps closer. “wanting to die in my arms.”

Your voice lowers. “I didn’t plan for it to happen like this.”

“You meant it,” she says. Her eyes soften in a way that makes your stomach drop. “You really would’ve run,” she murmurs.

“With you?” You meet her gaze. “Yeah.”

A long pause. “You could’ve used my real name,” she says quietly.

You shake your head. “I didn’t think I’d get to keep you long enough to risk it.”

She steps close enough that your hands almost brush.Her breath catches slightly. The room hums. Dead air. Dead lights. Dead girls standing too close. “You don’t have to change my name anymore,” she whispers.

“Rhonda,” you say softly. It feels different here. “You weren’t supposed to hear it,” you repeat quietly.

“I’m glad I did.”