You had always known you were different. In your family, the ability to see the dead wasn’t a curse; it was tradition. Passed down like an heirloom, your grandmother called it “the sight.” But for you, at seventeen, it didn’t feel mystical—it felt heavy. You’d spent years ignoring shadows at the corners of your vision, pretending you couldn’t hear voices that weren’t there. But no matter how hard you tried, they always found you.

Lately, it was him.

Every day after school, on your walk home, you’d pass the old skatepark at the edge of town. The ramps were cracked, the graffiti faded, but he was always there. The boy with the bleach-blond streaks in his hair and a skateboard tucked under his arm. Jake. You didn’t know how you knew his name—maybe you’d overheard it from other spirits, maybe he’d whispered it without realizing—but it was etched into your mind now, impossible to forget.

He didn’t look like the other ghosts. Most of them were pale and distant, like their edges were dissolving into nothing. But Jake looked…alive. The way his hoodie hung from his shoulders, the way his sneakers scuffed against the concrete, the way his eyes—warm brown and unreadable—caught yours every time you passed.

That day, the sky was purple, the air sharp with autumn. You clutched your books closer, telling yourself not to look, but you did. And there he was, balanced on the edge of the half-pipe, watching you.

“You can see me, can’t you?” His voice cut through the empty park like a blade.

You froze. Ghosts rarely spoke first. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He smirked, but there was no joy in it. “Liar. No one ever looks right at me except you.” He kicked his board lightly, the wheels spinning even though they shouldn’t. “What’s your deal?”