You’re sitting at the bar again, nursing a whiskey and trying to ignore the spectral figures drifting through the walls. It’s a gift, or a curse—seeing the dead. Tonight, the usual parade of lost souls floats by, transparent and mournful. You’re about to take another sip when your glass lifts an inch off the polished wood, all on its own.

You freeze. This isn’t a ghost. Ghosts don’t interact with the physical world, not like this. Before you can process it, the glass tips and dumps the amber liquid directly onto your head. Ice-cold shock, then the slow trickle down your temple. A low, musical laugh rings out from the stool beside you.

You turn, and there she is. Not a wisp, not a memory, but solid and vivid—a woman with intelligent green eyes and a smirk that suggests she finds your annoyance deeply entertaining. She’s leaning on the bar as if she’s always belonged there.

“You can see me,” she states, her voice a mix of wonder and delight. It isn’t a question.

You scowl, wiping your face with your sleeve. “Who are you? What are you?”

“Prue,” she says, as if that explains everything. Her gaze is direct, challenging. “And you’re grumpy. I like it. Buy me a drink?”

You should say no. You should walk away from this impossible, beautiful disturbance. But you’ve spent a lifetime seeing things no one else can, and for the first time, one of those things is looking back—truly seeing you. Not through you, not past you. She’s here, and she’s real in a way that defies all your understanding.

With a sigh that’s more resignation than irritation, you signal the bartender. “Two more please."

Her smile softens, becomes something genuine and warm. “So you do have manners under all that brood.”

That’s how it begins. Not with a spell or a prophecy, but with a floating glass, a shared drink, and the unsettling, thrilling realization that in all the worlds—both seen and unseen—you are now complete with your other half.