Chapter 8
Serena remained in our bedroom. Ethan slept in the guest room, clutching his phone as if it were a lifeline, his every movement radiating tension, a fear I couldn’t comprehend.
Abby, sensing his indifference, withdrew into herself, refusing to interact with him. She stayed in her room, her small form radiating anger, her childish rejection a mirror of my
- vn.
“He can’t see us, sweetie,” I explained gently, my voice a whisper in the silence of the afterlife. “It’s not because he doesn’t care.”
“Yes, he does!” she retorted, her voice sharp with childish indignation. “He’s just ignoring me! Well, I’m ignoring him too!”
I didn’t argue. She didn’t understand the chasm that separated us, the barrier between the living and the dead.
I read her stories, sang her lullabies, and lay beside her each night, my spectral presence a
comfort she couldn’t feel.
The next morning, Ethan opened the door to Abby’s room, calling her name, his voice tinged with a forced cheerfulness. For a moment, his shoulders slumped as he saw the empty room. Then, he straightened up, his face a mask of indifference, as if he hadn’t expected anything different.
He couldn’t see us.
Abby seemed to understand now. She looked at me, her eyes wide with a question I couldn’t
answer.
“Why can’t Daddy see us, Mommy?”
“We’re in different worlds now, honey.”
“But… what does that mean? Where’s the other world? Can we go there?”
Her questions were a constant ache, a reminder of the chasm that separated us.
13:12 Fri, 13 Dec M.
She persisted, demanding answers I didn’t have, her childish insistence a mirror of my own desperate need for understanding.
Before I could respond, Serena walked into Ethan’s study, a flash drive in her hand. She approached Ethan, who glanced up briefly, his expression unreadable, then returned to his work. She stood there, awkwardly, waiting for him to acknowledge her.
Finally, he looked up again, his voice polite, but distant. “What is it, Serena?”
Where was no warmth in his tone, no trace of the love he had once professed. He sounded like a stranger, not a lover.
“Can I borrow your computer? Just for a minute,” she asked, holding up the flash drive.
I recognized it instantly. It was mine.
No! He couldn’t see those pictures! The memories, so carefully preserved, were meant for
me, not for her.
I tried to stop her, to grab her hand, but my spectral form passed right through her.
Ethan, please, don’t let her… My silent plea went unanswered.
I closed my eyes, unable to bear the sight of her inserting the flash drive into his computer, the click of the connection a sound that reverberated through my spectral form, a physical
manifestation of my pain.
And then, she was gone, leaving only Ethan and I, and the ghost of a memory flickering on
the screen.
There I was, years younger, my face glowing with happiness, my eyes sparkling with a love that now seemed foolish, naive. I was holding a camera, waving at the lens. “Gotcha again,
Ethan!”
The camera focused on him, his back turned. He was wearing his high school letterman jacket, the number 12 emblazoned on the back. He turned, a fleeting smile crossing his lips,
a smile that was both familiar and heart–wrenchingly distant.
I had hundreds of pictures like this, stolen moments, captured on film, a testament to a love that had consumed me, a love that had blinded me to the truth.
The last few pictures were from the day he was kidnapped, He was on his way to a basketball game with his friends. I had wanted to surprise him, but as we drove past a deserted alleyway, he was snatched, his screams swallowed by the shadows.
The video ended abruptly, the final frame a blurry image of the reservoir where they took
him.
Ethan stared at the screen, his face pale, his voice a strangled whisper. “Serena, who saved
me?”
She stammered, unable to answer.
He knew the truth. He had finally seen it, not through my words, but through the silent testimony of a video, a ghost of a memory captured on film.
I had told him about paying Serena to leave, about her willing departure. But he had never believed me. He had chosen to believe the lie, the story that painted me as the villain, the manipulative shrew, the woman who had driven his true love away.
In all the years we were married, he had never truly trusted me.
Abby tugged at my sleeve, her voice small and hesitant. “Mommy, is that Daddy?”
“Yes, sweetheart. That was him, a long time ago.”
He was sixteen then. The year I almost drowned, trying to save him. The year I developed a
crippling fear of water.
But Abby loved the ocean. And so did Ethan.
And I, the woman who had spent her life terrified of water, had drowned, my body lost to the depths, my spirit tethered to a man who had never truly loved me.
The computer screen went black. And then, another video appeared.
This one was different. This one was recent. This one was my last message to him, recorded the day I left.
I had told him everything, my voice flat, emotionless, my words a testament to the emptiness in my soul.
“Ablly’s gone, Ethan.”
“Goodbye, Ethan. This is it. You’ll be free of me now.”
He hadn’t even had time to react before his phone started ringing, the insistent buzzing a jarring interruption in the silent room. I glanced at the screen. An unknown number.
“Hello, is this Mr. Carter? We’ve found a body… a woman… We believe it may be your wife..
didn’t hear the rest. I saw the phone slip from Ethan’s grasp, the screen shattering on impact. Tears streamed down his face as he asked the same question over and over, his voice filled with a disbelief that sounded suspiciously like guilt.
“Can you say that again, please?”
“How could it be Grace? She wouldn’t..”
“She was so selfish… so focused on herself… She wouldn’t…”
His words, a mix of confusion and denial, cut through me, a painful reminder of his inability to see me, to truly know me.
And yet, he was right. I had been selfish. I had taken everything from my stepfather, from his family, securing my own future, protecting my mother’s legacy.
But I had done what I had to do. I had survived.
