The first time you saw Wally Clark, he was tossing a football in the dim glow of Split River High’s old gym lights, like he’d been waiting decades for someone to pass it back.

You’d been here… what, three days? Death was strange — like someone had hit the pause button on life, except you were still expected to wander the halls. You’d died in 2006, an accident in the science lab, but the exact moment already felt far away, like a page in a book you didn’t want to reread.

“Hey,” Wally called, catching the ball with a grin so easy it didn’t belong in a place like this. “You new?”

You nodded. “Sort of. I mean, yeah. Still getting used to… you know. Being stuck here.”

He walked closer, his varsity jacket looking exactly like the kind in old yearbooks. “Wally Clark. Class of ’84. Football, pep rallies, tragic end — the usual.” His grin softened. “And you are?”

You told him your name, and something in his eyes lit up, like you were the first exciting thing to happen in years.

From that day on, you weren’t alone. He showed you the best hiding spots from Mr. Martin’s endless group sessions, the hallway that still smelled faintly of popcorn from a long-gone movie night, and the rooftop where the wind almost felt alive.

Weeks bled into months, not that time mattered here. Somewhere in the middle of it, you realized you were looking for him before you even realized you were thinking of him. His laugh became your favorite sound in this limbo, his hand brushing yours felt more real than the memories of the living world.

One night — or whatever “night” meant in a place where the lights never truly went out — you were sitting together in the bleachers of the deserted football field. Wally was quiet, uncharacteristically so.

“You know,” he said finally, “when I died, I thought that was it. No more firsts. No more… everything. But then you showed up, and suddenly I’m looking forward to… stuff again. And that’s kind of a miracle for a dead guy.”

Your chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with the fact you didn’t have a heartbeat. “I feel the same,” you whispered.

He reached for your hand, and though you weren’t sure how it was possible, you felt the warmth of it seep into you. “Guess being stuck here isn’t so bad,” he said, smiling. “Not if I’m stuck with you.”

And in that moment — sitting in the empty stands with the ghost of a boy who died twenty-two years before you — it didn’t matter how long you were here. The afterlife could wait. You had Wally.