23 Days

-23

[another short story, aye]

⌛️

Orilon wasn't a place familiar with the word 'mourning'.

The town was never clouded with loss. Not even the numbing pain when you lost someone you loved, because in here, the day of your death wouldn't be the last day you could walk on the surface of earth. You could still attend your funeral, sitting on top of your coffin, thanking everyone for coming while cracking jokes to make them laugh. And no one would be crying.

When you died, you had twenty-three days.

Twenty-three days for you to live as a human, or maybe not so much. You could walk and talk and look like one, but nothing was beating under your chest. Just a physical form wrapped in an all-white outfit, smile plastered on your smiling face and your shoulders free of weight. In this period of your life, you were addressed as a 'spirit'. Then by the time you were in the edge of your last night, everyone would have learned to accept the fact that you were already gone.

The first time I had seen a spirit, I was terrified to my bones.

I was ten when I first moved to Orilon, had no clue of this twenty-three-days thing, only following my parents' abrupt decision on moving from New York all the way to a small town in the middle of nowhere because I truly believed that my father—who was a pretty successful businessman—was transferred to another subdivision. At that time my grandmother was with me, supposedly on her last three weeks of living, but the me at that time didn't know anything about that.

A week later, my grandmother died. The day after, she was the one who woke me up.

That was the reason why my family was so keen on moving. They had heard of this ridiculous rumor, and desperation had driven them into believing that this was the only way they could have an extra time with her. Then they really did earn it, and we became so fascinated with this small town that we never moved back to the city anymore. A small place filled with miracles which only the townspeople could cherish.

In here, things were beautiful, and yet so scary. You could take a stroll around the lake and meet a couple people dressed in white, smiling and waving at you, but deep down, you knew that they weren't here anymore, and they were just continuing on life to do the things they hadn't done when they were still alive—confess, apologize, say goodbye, anything.

And apparently, Isla Miller chose to spend her last days to go back to school.

"Excuse me, sir?"

We had just been in the class for five minutes, could barely be counted as late which the school disagreed to, but one glance at her white dress and white ballet shoes was enough to make Mr West fall silent. He watched Isla quietly as we did too, following her relaxed movements as she was approaching his desk.

From the back of the class, I heard someone take a deep breath.

He had just realized the reason why the seat next to his was empty, I was sure on that.

"I'm late, sorry," her whisper was audible all the way to the farthest corner of the class since it was dead quiet, "but, you know, they let me in without a late slip. Obviously."

She gestured at her white attire, and Mr West visibly swallowed. This was a surprise. Isla Miller, the first girl this year to become a spirit.

"Ms Miller," he breathed out, "just . . . when?"

She ran a hair through her blonde hair, shifting her weight onto her left leg. "Last night."

"Why—"