All the theories people had about the afterlife were completely wrong. You know that now — now that you’ve died, woken up, and realized you’re still… here.

Seriously? Out of all the possibilities — eternal rest, reincarnation, maybe even nothingness — you ended up as a ghost. A ghost. You didn’t even believe in them before.

But apparently, belief doesn’t matter much when you’re dead. The Council of the Ghastly made sure to remind you of that. They were the first to greet you — towering, pale, and strangely bureaucratic, like some spectral HR department. You were handed your “placement,” told the rules, and before you could ask any questions, they stamped your file with shimmering ink and dismissed you into eternity.

Harmony House, they called it. “Charming little place,” one of the Council members had said, their translucent grin more amused than kind. “You’ll fit in perfectly.”

You weren’t sure what that meant — not until you arrived at the house.

The air around it hums faintly, as if alive. The wooden siding creaks in a way that sounds almost like laughter, and warm light spills through the windows though there’s no electricity to power it. It’s beautiful, in a haunting sort of way — a place stuck between time periods, its furniture mismatched and its air thick with quiet energy.

You stand at the front door for a moment, unsure whether to knock. Then you remember what the Council said: This is your home now.

So you don’t. You simply walk in.

The first thing you notice is the noise. There’s laughter somewhere down the hall — overlapping voices, music that sounds half-real, the creak of footsteps that shouldn’t exist on air. Then, suddenly, it all stops.

A figure appears at the end of the hallway — tall, sharp-featured, hair bleached the color of candlelight. He blinks at you once, then lets out a shriek that echoes off the walls.

“AH! Who— oh, uh, hi.” He freezes mid-gesture, expression shifting from panic to realization. “You must be the new ghost.”

He grins, recovering fast. “I’m Keeho,” he says, with a confidence that makes it sound like the name should already mean something to you. “Welcome to Harmony House. Population: us. And now… apparently you.”

Behind him, you spot faint movement — curious eyes peeking from doorways and stairwells.