**The Ghost**
Oliver was driving home from his parents’ cottage. They spent summers in the countryside, in a weathered old house that demanded constant attention. Weekends were for repairs—fixing fences, hauling water from the pump for the garden, then for the bathhouse. His father’s heart hadn’t been steady lately, so Oliver insisted on taking over the heavy work.
After a long day—groceries with his mum, a late supper—he gathered his things to leave.
*”It’s practically dark out. Stay the night,”* she urged.
But he’d promised Emily he’d be home. Just as he was about to drive off, he called her—and *she* told him to stay.
*”Not missing me, then?”* He pretended to be hurt.
*”Course I am. Terribly.”* Her laugh was warm. *”But drive safe.”*
*”Be home soon,”* he said, cheerful.
The sun had long set, leaving only the eerie blue of twilight. Few cars were on the road. Only now, behind the wheel, did he realize how exhausted he was. Headlights flashed past, blinding him for seconds at a time. Nearing the city, his eyelids grew heavy—just for a second—then—
*”Emily, I’m back!”* Oliver called out as he stepped inside.
No answer.
He found her in the kitchen, humming softly—some old pop song—while something sizzled in a pan. The smell of roast beef filled the air. All his weariness had vanished, as if he’d slept for days. He couldn’t even remember parking the car, climbing the stairs—had he blacked out?
*”Em,”* he tried again.
She didn’t react.
*Always in her own world,* he thought, stepping closer—but no headphones.
*”Missed you. And I’m starving,”* he whispered near her ear.
She froze, listening—to nothing.
*”Finally!”* He grinned. *”Thought you’d gone deaf.”*
Then—Emily slammed the pan lid down, killed the hob, spun around so fast he barely dodged.
*”Emily, what’s going on? Why won’t you look at me? I’m *here*!”*
She moved past him—*through* him—a breeze against his skin. Her phone rang. A stranger’s number. She hesitated, then answered.
*”Yes, speaking. What? No—that’s not possible—”*
The phone clattered to the floor. She crumpled onto the sofa, sobbing.
*”Em, what’s wrong? Is it Dad? His heart?”*
He reached for her hands—but his fingers passed *through* them, like mist.
Staggering back, he stared at his own hands. Emily looked up, red-eyed.
*”Ollie?”*
*”I’m right here!”*
But her gaze slid past him. *She couldn’t see him.*
*”This isn’t happening. It’s a mistake.”* Her voice broke. *”Ollie…”*
She snatched up the phone, dialled with shaking fingers.
*”Mum—they called from the police. Ollie—he was in an accident near the motorway. No—he’s *gone*—”*
The phone fell again. Her wails cut through the room.
*That’s… me?* Oliver touched his back pocket. No phone. No keys. *Did I crash? Am I dead?*
But how could he be? He was *here*. Standing in his own flat, talking to her.
Except—she didn’t hear. Didn’t see.
*That’s why I don’t remember driving home. Why I feel like I’ve been sleepwalking. Because I didn’t come home. Not really.*
He stared at his hands again. No horror. No pain. Just… quiet.
*”Ollie, how can I—how do I—?”* Emily collapsed onto the sofa.
He reached out—but his hand hovered above her. Useless.
The hours blurred. Dawn came. Emily wasn’t in bed. He didn’t know where *he’d* been—only that suddenly, he was *pulled*—into a cold, tiled room. A metal table. A body.
His body.
His mother wept into a handkerchief. His father held her. Emily stood apart, silent tears tracking down her cheeks.
Later, outside the morgue, his mother whispered to his father in the taxi:
*”They never had children. We helped buy that flat—it’s only in Oliver’s name. She should go back to her mum’s.”*
His father scoffed. *”Annie—Christ, not now.”*
*”We’ve still got Paul. He’ll marry soon, need a place—”*
Oliver flinched. *Mum. Really?*
Back home, Emily sat motionless. The beef sat untouched.
*”Listen, you need the blue folder. In the drawer. The life insurance—£300,000. Enough for a flat.”*
As if hearing him, she pulled the folder out—then set it aside.
*Good. You’ll see it later. I should’ve told you. When Jenkins drowned kayaking in Wales—left his wife with three kids—that payout kept them afloat. A few of us took out policies after that.*
*If Mum pushes you out—*
*”Ollie… how do I do this?”* Emily whispered. *”We waited too long. Should’ve had a baby. I’d still have a piece of you—”*
*”Didn’t know, love,”* he murmured, watching her cry herself to sleep.
At the graveside, friends and colleagues murmured condolences. Oliver stood beside the open plot, watching Emily, his parents, the crowd around the coffin. He felt nothing for the body inside.
Then—Emily looked up. Straight at him.
For a heartbeat, he thought—*she sees me.*
But no. Her gaze returned to the casket.
As the mourners drifted away, talking of errands and meetings—the business of the living—Emily trailed behind, hands limp.
Oliver stayed.
Something held him there. The air around him shimmered. A light—warm, *right*—pulled at him.
No resistance. Only peace.
Wherever it led—he knew he belonged.
The love he carried was nothing compared to what awaited.
