Talk To Me

Chapter Three

Present

Oliver rushed into the living room, his breath shallow, his pulse a hammering echo in his ears. Near the window, a faint white glimmer shimmered against the darkened glass. His heart clenched. He knew that glow.

"Leah?" His voice wavered, betraying the mix of hope and fear tightening in his chest.

But the moment the name left his lips, he realized—this wasn't her.

Instead, a woman stood near the window, draped in a faded blue terry bathrobe. The right side of the fabric gaped open, a deep crimson stain staining the soft material. Her hair was cropped short, shorter than Oliver's, and her skin had the same pale translucence they all did. The dead always looked like that—faded, untethered, not quite real.

Her eyes locked onto his. "You can see me?" she asked, her voice edged with hesitation as if she wasn't entirely convinced she existed at all.

Oliver hesitated. He had mere seconds to decide. Acknowledge her, and he risked opening that door again—the one he had slammed shut after Mary's death. Ignore her, and maybe—just maybe—Leah wouldn't come either.

His throat felt dry. It had been nearly four years since he had seen a spirit. He had spent the first year after Mary's passing pretending ghosts didn't exist, willing himself blind to their presence.

He exhaled sharply. "Yes."

Relief flickered across the woman's weary face. "Did you see me before?"

Oliver shook his head. "No. Just now." He narrowed his gaze. "Who are you?"

She sighed as if she had been waiting years for someone to ask. "My name is Ann."

Oliver took a cautious step closer, eyeing the dark stain on her robe. "How long have you been here?"

Ann glanced toward the window, her gaze unfocused, drifting somewhere beyond the present. "I'm not sure," she admitted, voice distant. "My son looks older now." A pause. Then, as if shaking off the fog, she turned to him. "When did you move here, Oliver?"

"Two years ago," he answered, though his mind was elsewhere—still searching, still hoping. Leah. Would she come too?

Ann frowned. "It feels like just yesterday to me." A shadow crossed her face—confusion, sorrow, something deeper.

Oliver had seen this before. "That happens sometimes. When you're..." He hesitated, searching for the least jarring way to say it. "Dead." Ann barely reacted. She simply glanced down at herself, as if seeing the evidence of her death for the first time. Oliver motioned toward the bloodied gap in her robe. "Is that why you're here?"

Her brows furrowed. "No. That resolved quickly—or at least, that's what I understand."

Oliver ran a hand through his curls. "Then why are you here? Didn't you see the light?"

Ann's expression twisted with confusion. "Light?"

Oliver sighed. He had forgotten how lost some of them could be. "Yeah. When you die, there's supposed to be a light. Unless, of course, you have unfinished business here."

Ann took a slow step toward him. "What's in that light?"

Oliver instinctively tensed. Even after years of seeing spirits, it still unsettled him when they moved like that—too fluid, too silent. "It's different for everyone," he explained. "Usually, it's the people you love. The ones you lost, waiting for you."

She was quiet for a long moment, staring past him. "I didn't see that," she admitted. "I was too worried about my son." A faint crease appeared between her brows. "Does that count as unfinished business?"