A Spiritual Mystery

Someone I Could Rely On - 1

I felt weary—not from any hard labor or physical strain, but from an overwhelming sense of loneliness that gnawed at me constantly. It wasn't the kind of loneliness that came from solitude, but the kind that comes from being invisible to the world, forgotten by life itself. No one can see me, and that's as it should be—I'm a spirit, condemned to wander aimlessly, stuck between realms. I drift through the world unnoticed, untouched, unable to connect with anyone. People pass by, their lives full of purpose and meaning, while I remain an unseen shadow, longing for a connection I can no longer have. I can't be seen, I can't be spoken to, and there's not a single soul, living or dead, to call a friend. Even the company of other spirits eludes me; it seems I am truly alone.

My existence feels like an endless echo, stretching on without direction or end. The only thing that anchors me is the one truth I know: the only way I can escape this purgatory and ascend to paradise is by uncovering the mystery of my death. Somewhere, buried deep in my forgotten past, lies the answer. But I have no memory of my former life—no hint of who I once was, how I lived, or how I died. It's as if my very identity has been erased, leaving behind only a hollow shell of what I used to be.

The more I dwell on it, the more I realize I can't do this alone. I need someone—someone alive, someone driven, someone who thrives on uncovering the truth. Someone who can help me piece together the shattered fragments of my past and guide me toward understanding what happened to me. Only then can I finally move on, but until that person arrives, I remain a ghost of my former self, searching for answers in the emptiness.

While wandering aimlessly through the streets, lost in thought as usual, a car came speeding around the corner. Before I could even react, it was barreling straight toward me. My instincts kicked in, but then I remembered—I'm a spirit. The car passed through me like I wasn't even there, but to my horror, it struck a teenage girl who had been walking nearby. She was wearing baggy jeans and a cropped shirt, her long dark brown hair flowing freely in the wind, perfectly framing her face. I glanced away for just a second, and in that moment, I heard her scream—a sharp, piercing sound that lasted only a heartbeat. When I turned back, she was lying crumpled on the pavement, unconscious, her body bleeding from the impact.

I had never seen anything like it. My existence as a spirit had kept me distant from the world of the living, shielded from such raw, painful realities. But there she was, hurt and vulnerable, right before my eyes. I was paralyzed, frozen by the shock of the scene. Time seemed to stretch out, and I could only stand there, staring, helpless and horrified. I hadn't known such fear as a spirit; it was like I was reliving some long-buried instinct of my former life, something raw and primal. The sight of her blood and the stillness of her body stirred something deep within me.

After what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, a passerby rushed over, frantically calling for help. An ambulance arrived soon after, its flashing lights painting the street in shades of red and blue. As the medics carefully lifted the girl into the ambulance, I found myself unable to tear my gaze away. I was drawn to her, compelled to follow, even though I didn't understand why. So I did. I followed the ambulance all the way to the hospital, trailing behind like a shadow.

The hospital itself was a massive structure—larger than any building I had ever seen, even in my hazy memories. It loomed over the city like a monument to life and death, its sterile, cold atmosphere both unnerving and oddly comforting to me. Despite the bustling activity within, the halls felt strangely silent, like time slowed down in this place of waiting and uncertainty. I lingered there for nearly a week, hovering near the girl's room, unable to shake the feeling that I had to stay close to her. It was more than just concern; it was an inexplicable need to watch over her, to see what would happen next.

Each day, I observed the doctors and nurses as they came and went, checking on her condition. She lay there, motionless, wrapped in a world of unconsciousness. But I couldn't leave. I didn't want to leave. A strange emotion settled over me—something like attachment, or maybe it was guilt. Either way, I couldn't shake it. I wanted to see her recover, to see her live, to watch her grow in ways I had never had the chance to. And then, just as I was about to finally step away from her bedside, thinking there was no more reason for me to stay, I heard it—a faint moan.

I turned around, and to my astonishment, her eyes were open. She was awake, groggy and pale, but conscious. Her gaze shifted around the room, and then, impossibly, it locked onto mine. I froze. There was no mistaking it—she was looking directly at me. Spirits like me weren't supposed to be seen. I had drifted through the world, invisible to everyone, for so long that I almost forgot what it felt like to be acknowledged. Confused, I glanced behind me, half expecting someone else to be there. But there was no one. It was me she was seeing.

My mind raced with questions, but all I could do was stare at her, as she stared back at me. Then, as if compelled by some force outside of myself, I spoke the first words I had said in what felt like centuries.

"Can you see me?"