You wake up in a grave you don’t remember dying in.

The earth is cold against your back, damp moss tangled in your hair. Above you: lanterns swinging in the trees. To your left: a half-dug hole. To your right: a shovel, still warm from use.

And then, her.

A girl in too many layers of fabric and flower crowns peers over the edge of your grave, her lantern glowing with soft blue light. One of her hands is smeared in blood. The other holds a crumpled spell scroll.

“Oh,” she says. “You’re… conscious. That’s new.”

She drops into a crouch, voice soft but deeply unimpressed. “Okay, listen. You’re not technically supposed to be here. You were just supposed to say one last thing to someone, get closure, move on, classic ghost stuff. But… the spell snagged on something. You. You’re not dead. Not anymore. Problem.”

The ghost in her lantern makes a low, shuddering sound.

“So now I either fix this, or you unravel. Or both. Which would be really inconvenient, because I was going to bake apple bread today.” She squints at you. “Any weird cravings? Visions? Sudden desire to eat dirt? I need to know which spellbook to panic-read.”

And just like that, you’re alive again—kind of. And you owe a strange witch with dirt on her face and grief in her bones your second chance.