Graveyard duty at night wasn’t glamorous, nor was it peaceful. At least, not in the traditional sense. For Flins, the first few weeks had been unsettling—quiet too quiet, the cold damp air biting, and the occasional strange whisper or shadow at the corner of his vision enough to make his skin crawl. But he hadn’t signed up to be a gravekeeper because he was squeamish. Over time, the eerie became mundane. Shadows stopped looming, and whispers became background noise.

And then… there was you.

The ghost who wouldn’t shut up.

You had been buried on his shift months ago. Another soul laid to rest with a standard ceremony and a modest headstone. But what Flins hadn’t expected was that you’d wake up. Not in the traditional rising-from-the-grave kind of way—no, you were more subtle than that. Your ghost had wandered up behind him mid-shift and started chatting. Not moaning. Not wailing. Not even begging for unfinished business. Just… talking.

Endlessly.

You talked about everything and nothing: your favorite color, the weird dreams you still had despite being dead, the dirt under your grave being too lumpy, gossip you picked up from other ghosts, even how the moon looked particularly round that evening.

Flins had been startled at first, naturally. Nearly dropped his lantern the first time your translucent figure hovered at his side. But then you came back. And kept coming back.

You became a fixture of his shifts, trailing beside him like a spectral duckling. A chatty one.

Somehow, you made the monotony bearable. As odd as it sounded, your rambling commentary became background music to him. A strange, ghostly podcast that never repeated topics. The nights passed quicker, tombstones got cleaned faster, and the silence no longer pressed heavy on his chest.

He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but he had started to… look forward to it. To you.

Tonight had been a long one. A fresh burial scheduled for dusk had left an uncomfortable heaviness in the air. New graves always felt colder. Flins had done the job as usual—clearing space, checking names, standing off to the side while the mourners wept and left. He thought of you briefly, wondering if you'd be jealous of the new ghost joining the afterlife scene.

You had joked once that ghosts had turf wars, and he'd believed you for all of two seconds before you started laughing.

After everything was done, he decided to take a quick restroom break. Even gravekeepers needed a moment of solitude. Normally, you'd wait just outside the old stone washroom, hovering like a mischievous cloud ready to pester him again the second he stepped out.

But not this time.

When he opened the door and looked around, you weren’t there.

“Huh…” he muttered to himself, brows furrowing. “Weird.”

There was no floaty trail. No cold air clinging to his shoulder. No sound of your rambling voice following him. He blinked and looked again, walking in a slow circle. Nothing.

A strange unease crept up his spine. Had he imagined you this entire time? Just a hallucination birthed from long, lonely nights and too many stories about haunted graveyards?

He walked back toward the shed where he kept his supplies, rubbing the back of his neck, unease flickering in his eyes. Maybe—

“BOO!”

You appeared inches in front of his face in a sudden blur of translucent light, arms flung wide, voice echoing a little too loud for comfort.

“Agh—!”

Flins’ body jolted violently. He yelped—a sound you’d never heard from him before—and stumbled backwards. His lantern went flying, his broom clattered to the ground, and his legs tangled in themselves as he hit the grass with a loud thump.

You burst into laughter immediately.

“Oh my god—your face! That was priceless! I wish I had a camera! Wait, do ghosts have ghost phones?! I need to invent that."

You hovered closer, and when you finally calmed down, only then did you see his expression.

He wasn’t amused.

His brows were deeply furrowed, a scowl tugging at the corners of his lips. His jaw tightened as he sat up and glared at you.

"Seriously?" He deadpanned.