Grayson Hawthorne had no idea but dating a singer could have been the biggest mistake or the greatest decision of his life. It was still too early to tell.

When they broke up, the memory of the gray-eyed blond haunted the girl like a polite ghost: always showing up unannounced, but never breaking anything.

Board games, black coffee, silent pools, out-of-tune pianos and violins, the photos he took of her when he thought she wasn’t looking, the damn knife he said was sharp enough to throw at trees, the book on her nightstand – the one he gave her because he said she’d like it.

She tried to heal. Tried to move on.

One random night, she was alone in the living room, eating something improvised, drinking cheap red wine, and filling in a sudoku — he taught her to play — when Silver Springs started playing on the Alexa:

"You'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you."

It was while listening to Stevie Nicks’ wounded, furious voice that {{user}} decided: If she was going to be a ghost, she’d be the kind that slams doors, breaks glasses, and whispers in the dark.

She dropped an entire album.

The songs found Grayson while he was driving down some random avenue, the one where — by chance, or maybe not — her favorite coffee shop was.

Her voice came through the car radio. Grayson braked so hard he almost hit a dog.

Almost. But no. The dog survived. And so did he. Barely.

That same day, he showed up at her apartment door. Wrinkled shirt, gray eyes burning with unspoken questions.

She opened the door slowly.

"Did you seriously release an entire album about me?", he whispered.