I stood at the doorstep of my house, barely holding myself up.
Not that I had bones or blood anymore, but something inside me felt drained beyond explanation.
My childhood home looked the same.
The rusted gate.
The potted plants my mom always forgot to water.
The wind chime that only ever rang when no one wanted it to.
I used to call this place a cage.
Now I'd give anything to crawl back inside it.
But I couldn't move. Not yet.
My feet felt stuck.
What was I expecting, really?
Hugs?
Tears?
Screams?
Would they be angry I died in such a stupid, pointless way? Or had they already... moved on?
Guilt coiled in me.
Growing up, Dad was my superhero.
Mom was my best friend.
And my little brother?
Well... he was just my little brother.
Somewhere in my teenage years, that all fell apart.
I stopped sharing anything with Mom.
I started rolling my eyes at Dad.
I fought with my brother like it was a competitive sport.
Romance, rebellion, sneaking out, peer pressure, music, makeup, bunking classes—I dove headfirst into it all.
Somewhere along the line, family became background noise.
After college, the calls became fewer.
The visits, rare.
Every holiday, they'd ask me to come.
Or they'd offer to visit.
And every time, I had something "more important."
I sighed.
"Damn... that actually sounded deep. Maybe death makes you wise.
Or maybe I was always smart, just never realized it till I died."
The door creaked.
I flinched.
My brother stepped out, taller than I remembered, more grown-up in the face.
He walked right past me, not seeing a thing.
But for a second, I felt something.
A flicker.
An emotion?
A thought?
It passed through me like a pulse of heat.
"He's up to something," I muttered.
"Let the sun burn me, I'm finding out what."
I followed.
He should've been going to school.
But halfway down the street, he looked around like a spy in a cartoon and ducked into the old park behind the alley.
And there she was.
Meera.
Childhood friend. Daughter of my dad's oldest colleague—a self-proclaimed "bad influence."
She practically grew up in our living room.
"Well well well," I whispered.
"What have we here, Romeo?"
They talked.
Sat close.
And then, to my surprise, he started tearing up.
"I miss her so much," he said.
"I don't know how to... I mean, she was annoying, but she was my annoying."
Meera put her hand on his.
"I know. She loved you, you know?"
He nodded.
Sniffled.
Hugged her.
Sweet.
Then... he smiled.
And not the broken kind.
The "oh hey, this hug is kinda nice" kind.
I squinted.
"This little shit is using my death to get closer to his crush."
I shook my head.
"Sly fox. Shameless. Disrespectful... Proud of you."
A tiny smile crept onto my face.
"At least someone's getting some love out of this tragedy."
I sighed.
"Don't let your sister's death be in vain, little bro. Use it. Win her heart. Make it count."
I turned, letting the moment slip behind me like a breeze.
He was okay.
Maybe too okay.
A part of me wanted him to be curled up in his room, listening to sad songs and writing my name on his math notebook.
But this?
This was real.
And somehow... that stung worse.
I walked back home.
Back to the front door.
Still unsure if I even wanted to see what waited inside.
I walked in.
The door creaked like it remembered me.
The house looked the same.
Too same.
Like time hadn't moved.
My dad was on the sofa.
The man who never missed a shave, who polished his shoes even for grocery runs—sat there in a worn-out shirt.
Hair uncombed.
A three-day stubble crawling across his jaw.
A half-empty glass of whiskey rested in his hand.
Morning sunlight poured in through the curtains.
He never drank in the morning.
Never.
He was our strength.
Our structure.
He was my superhero.
And now he looked like a statue someone gave up halfway carving.
I didn't know what to feel.
I didn't even know if I could feel anything.
That's when Mom walked into the dining room.
She carried a tray.
And on the table... four plates.
Four.
My legs gave out.
I knelt on the floor.
I didn't expect that.
I didn't expect them to still make me a plate.
All I could do was weep.
Hours passed.
Dad didn't move. Not once.
Just sipped.
At some point, he switched off the TV, right when a commercial came on for baby powder.
He stared at the blank screen.
Mom didn't sit.
Didn't stop.
She cleaned, wiped, folded, refolded, moved plates, wiped the same surface twice.
She kept going like if she paused, she'd fall apart.
I wanted to scream.
"Mom, stop. Please. Don't do this to yourself."
And then something happened.
She walked toward the hall, took the bottle from his hand.
No words.
No resistance.
Just silence.
She placed it on the shelf and turned away.
He stood.
Walked behind her.
Then gently, he held her hands.
"Stop," he whispered.
"Please. I can't see you like this."
Her back shivered but she didn't turn.
"It's not your fault," he said.
"She wouldn't want this. For you. For us."
I covered my mouth and sank lower.
And for the first time since dying, I felt something I couldn't name.
Guilt wasn't a strong enough word.
I was the ghost, but they were the ones being haunted.
I sat on the floor, head leaning against their legs.
I wanted to hold them.
I wanted to say, "I love you. I'm sorry."
I wanted to rewind every year I spent away.
Every call I skipped.
Every holiday I blew off.
If only I'd seen it.
If only I had noticed how much they missed me and just didn't say it because they thought I was happy.
They thought I was busy living.
And now...
"God, please," I whispered.
"Don't do this to them. Don't torture them like this. I'd give anything.
Let them be happy again.
Let them live.
Please."
"I hate myself for ever doubting if they even cared."
"I was a bad daughter."
"I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry, Dad."
"I love you more than anything.
More than ever.
If only I had told you."
I reached out and tried to hug them both.
For a second... I felt them.
Just for a second.
And then—gone.
They both turned, looking toward me.
Not at me.
Toward me.
My mom started crying.
I couldn't take it.
I ran upstairs to my old room.
The door was open.
The bed was made.
It smelled like me.
Everything was clean.
Too clean.
She must have been cleaning it every day.
For years.
I sat on the floor.
My breath hitched against the emptiness.
Until the sun went down.
Until the ghosts weren't the ones haunting this house.
It was the memories.
Night had fallen.
I'd been holed up in my room, barely moving, just existing between tears and silence.
Then I heard the door.
Footsteps.
A voice.
The house, once a tomb of grief, had sound again.
My little brother—Liam.
He was home.
I floated down the stairs slowly, half-dreading what I'd see.
But to my surprise, Mom and Dad were... smiling.
Not fully.
Not freely.
But trying.
Mom was making her lame jokes again.
Dad was doing that thing where he asks way too many questions about school, pretending like he's not deeply invested.
"Liam, you better not be bunking again."
"Mom," he laughed,
"I literally came home from school."
"Doesn't prove anything.
You could've just gone to change and head back out for your secret girlfriend."
"What girlfriend?"
Meera, I whispered.
I watched them.
Laughing.
Talking.
Being normal.
And it hit me.
This is the face they always showed me too.
Happy.
Put-together.
I never saw them weak.
I never saw them as anything but strong.
Especially Dad.
But now I know better.
Now I see.
I sat at the dining table without thinking.
Wait.
I sat?!
"Okay, hold up.
Since when can I sit?"
I tapped the table.
My hand passed through.
"Alright... can't touch, but can sit.
What is this? Ghost 2.0? A night-time update?"
Maybe the rules changed at night.
Maybe I could fly again too.
But first... dinner.
Mom placed four plates again.
One of them... mine.
I whispered, "Thank you, Mom."
And for the first time all day, she smiled.
Just a little.
But it was real.
The three of them ate and talked.
Liam complained about school food.
Dad joked about how his boss probably eats worse.
Mom scolded both.
It felt... like home.
Not like I was watching strangers.
Not like I was dead.
But like I was there.
And in some small way—I was.
"Love you three," I whispered.
"I etched this into my soul."
I stood.
I didn't want to leave.
But I had to.
I turned one last time.
"Mom. Dad. Liam. Thank you.
God... thank you for giving me this moment."
I waited.
A few seconds passed.
A minute.
Still here.
"Thought so," I muttered.
"And here I was, waiting for some magical light beam or heavenly Uber to show up like, 'Congrats, ghost girl, you unlocked emotional closure.'"
I rolled my eyes.
"Figures."
"Alright. No glowing portal. No transformation.
Just me, being weird and dead with new semi-useful powers."
I floated out the window and launched into the sky.
Yup. Flying's back.
"Thank you, nighttime ghost mode."
I soared high above the city.
The rooftops.
The traffic.
The tiny glowing windows.
"Okay, what next?"
"Guess I'm visiting more people.
More places.
More regrets."
A soft hum rippled through the air.
Faint, like power lines in the rain.
Then, I felt it.
A presence.
A stare.
Not human.
Not quite.
Like walking alone in a dark alley and realizing you're not alone.
My body tensed.
But I kept flying.
"It's probably just me.
Being me.
Paranoid, dramatic, emotionally unstable."
I glanced behind.
Nothing.
Whatever I'd felt a moment ago had dissolved into the night.
The air felt emptier than before—almost too empty.
"Yup. Totally just me..."
I flew higher.
The wind.
The cold.
The quiet.
For now... it was just me and the sky.
***
Something unseen observed—its stare vast and ancient, like the sky itself had grown eyes.
It followed her through the clouds. Around that presence, the air itself seemed to tremble; faint screeches echoed, then fell silent at a single word.
"Enough."
The night stood still.
She soared on, unaware.
Is the afterlife really this easy to simulate?