Chapter 2: The Cold Spot in My Bed I told myself it was grief. That the whisper in the hallway at 3:12 AM was just the house settling. That the scent of rain and old books - _his_ scent - clinging to my pillow was just memory playing tricks. But grief doesn't pull the blanket off your feet. Grief doesn't trace your name on the fogged-up bathroom mirror. It started the night after the funeral. I'd fallen asleep with his sweater. The navy one he always wore when it was too hot for everyone else. I woke up with it folded. Neatly. On the chair across the room. And the bed beside me was dented, like someone had been sitting there, watching me sleep. "Mara?" I whispered into the dark. His name. The room went colder. Not winter cold. Grave cold. Then, a breath. Right by my ear. Too close to be mine. _"You kept it."_ I shot up, heart hammering. The room was empty. But his sweater was back in my arms. Warm. I should've burned it. Should've moved. Should've told someone I was losing my mind. Instead, I started talking to the empty room. I told him about my day. About how awful coffee tasted without him stealing sips. About how the city felt too loud now. And he answered. Not in words at first. A book sliding off the shelf when I said I missed him. The radio switching to our song. A wet footprint on the tile when it hadn't rained in weeks. By the end of the week, I stopped pretending he was gone. Because the worst part isn't that my dead boyfriend is haunting me. The worst part is... I like it. I like that he's still here. That he's still choosing me. Even if it means I'm choosing a ghost over the living. Last night, I asked him: _"Why didn't you cross over?"_ The lights flickered once. Then the mirror wrote back, slow, like a finger dragging through steam: _"Because you asked me to stay."_ I don't remember asking. Do you?