These Haunted Halls

Chapter 3

HAPPY HALLOWEEN! 

This is the final part to this incredibly short story, which is cross posted on A03 if anyone has a preference for there, but it was so fun to write and who knows, I may do more with it in the future! I hope you all enjoyed!

Third person pov

Being dead is, in a word, lonely.

Oboro knows it shouldn't be. He's never really alone. Surrounded by the people he loves, able to watch over them even though his time's technically up-- it should be a dream come true. He's getting to watch them learn and grow. He gets to see them move on from him and find their footing after his death. It is a novel experience, one he's thankful he gets when so many don't.

There's something about watching his friends reclaim their smiles that fills him with so much warmth that sometimes he can almost trick himself into thinking he's alive too. After all, how can someone who'd dead feel so much all at once? He feels full of love and amazement. The dead don't weep, and yet he can never seem to stop tears from dripping down his cheeks as his friends stake their small victories in the sand, inching further and further in life as they discover what it means to be okay again.

In life, Oboro was sociable. He was a touchy person, always keen on giving hugs, throwing arms over his friends' shoulders, even jumping on their backs when he saw fit. He was bright and loud, bold and brash, and he took every day on like it was going to be his last. And eventually it was. He'll never regret saving those children, but that doesn't stop him from wishing things were different.

It's lonely to talk and have no one hear you. It's lonely to have your friends mourn you, not knowing you never truly left. It's lonely to look in the mirror and be unable to see his own reflection. It's lonely to know that his friends are growing and changing in ways Oboro will never, ever get the chance to. Because the simple fact of the matter is that he is dead, and they are not.

Oboro does not belong here, he knows. His friends do. Sometimes, it's hard to remember they're not really in it together anymore. Their hearts beat, their lungs breathe, their bodies feel and exist. Oboro doesn't... have that anymore. He'll never have that again, and it's a truth that burns.

Despite that, he's glad. Of course he's glad. He's so happy they're alright, that they're able to move on, that they're coming into themselves and their careers. He gets to witness them graduate, and become real heroes, and move out. He sees first drinks, birthdays, hero costume updates, bad haircuts and even worse outfits. He sees them get their drivers licenses, sees joyful holidays and watches them make new friends, and new connections, and save more people than Oboro ever got to in life.

He gets to watch them have their greatest highs and their lowest lows. He is a silent support they don't realize they have, but Oboro gives it in droves in hopes that maybe it makes a difference. Even if only on a subconscious level.

He gets used to it. It's not isolation, but something close to it in a way. Sometimes he shouts loud enough to rattle the windows, but it's always shrugged off as the wind. Sometimes he stands in the TV until it cuts to static, but that just means they have to call the cable company. Sometimes he'll walk through them over and over again until they're shivering cold, but it's only a sign they need to turn up the thermostat, because the draft in the apartment is insane.

Oboro wasn't helpless in life. Getting used to being helpless in death is a sharp learning curve that he does not take with grace. He's angry, sometimes. Not at his friends, never at them, and never at the children he gave his life for. He's angry at himself, at the plans he had and will never get to fulfill.

He knows he died a hero and he's proud of it. He checks in on the children he saved every so often and they're all growing so wonderfully, full of youthful laughter and big dreams. Oboro just wishes he was still a hero was all. It's all he ever wanted to be. He wanted to save, to help, to be someone that could be looked to for comfort and safety.