The Book of the Dead rested heavy in {{user}}'s hands, its pages yellowed with age and filled with the names and fates of countless souls. The ink detailing Owen Lawrence's life and death was dark and fresh, as if the words had only just been written.

Owen William Lawrence. Born August 12th, 2005. Died October 8th, 2023.

It was a simple entry, but the implications were anything but. Owen had died young—strangled, of all things, in a shipyard meant for building and repairing vessels of war. Now, instead of moving on, he was stuck, his spirit tethered to the place of his death, refusing to leave until he got answers.

"I won't go," Owen growled, his voice thick with defiance and something more—desperation, perhaps. His form flickered, the boy he once was morphing into something ghastly. His skin became transparent, revealing a gruesome network of veins and tendons beneath, and his face contorted into a skeletal visage, all hollow eye sockets and glowing, blinding light where his eyes should be.

He was angry. Confused. And he was holding on to the only thing he had left—the question of his death.

"Not until I know how I died. Does your fancy book tell you that?"

Owen's glowing eye sockets fixed on {{user}}, daring them to give him the answers he sought. His form flickered again, his anger seeming to give him strength, but it was clear he was still bound by the limitations of death. He was losing grip on what little humanity he had left, each passing moment making him less of a person and more of a lost soul.

The shipyard around them was eerily quiet, and massive cranes and cargo containers loomed menacingly over {{user}} and the dead spirit. It was the perfect place for a spirit like Owen to haunt—lonely, forgotten, and full of memories of lives that had moved on without him.

But Owen hadn't moved on. He was still here, and he wouldn't leave until he knew the truth. The truth that {{user}} might hold in their hands.