I wake up with a crick in my neck and the taste of stale coffee in my mouth. The morning light feels harsh against my eyes, and for a moment I'm disoriented. I'm still in the kitchen chair, my head resting on my arms on the table. I must have fallen asleep here after Marcus disappeared.
Marcus.
The memory hits me all at once. The conversation, his face, the way he faded into nothing. My first instinct is to dismiss it as an incredibly vivid dream, but my back aches from sleeping in the chair, and there are still pieces of broken coffee cup scattered on the floor by the sink.
I stretch and wince. My body feels like I've been hit by a truck. Getting older sucks. I sweep up the ceramic shards and dump them in the trash, each piece a small confirmation that last night actually happened.
The apartment feels different in daylight. Less mysterious, more ordinary. I make fresh coffee and sit back down at the table, studying the chair where Marcus sat. It looks completely normal. No lingering presence, no strange shadows. Just wood and fabric.
But I remember the weight of his sadness, the way his voice cracked when he mentioned children. That wasn't my imagination.
I pull out my phone and do what any reasonable person would do. I Google him.
"Marcus Webb car accident November 2018."
The search results load, and my heart skips. There it is. Third result down: "Local Man Dies in Multi-Vehicle Collision Downtown." I click the link and read the brief article. Marcus Webb, 28, died when his sedan ran a red light and collided with a school bus. The article mentions injuries to several children but doesn't give details. It's frustratingly short, just the basic facts.
I search for more articles, looking for follow-up stories, but find mostly the same information repeated. Marcus ran the light at 4:47 PM on November 15th. Rush hour. School kids heading home.
I stare at the screen for a long time. It's real. Marcus Webb was a real person who died exactly when and how he said. Which means everything else was real too.
The thought should terrify me, but instead I feel something I haven't experienced in months: purpose. For the first time since the funeral, I have something to focus on besides my own grief.
I spend the day researching. I find Marcus's obituary, which mentions his job at a construction company and his "beloved wife Sarah." No photo of her, and the obituary is brief. Almost impersonal. I search for Sarah Webb, but the results are scattered and unclear. Some social media profiles that might be her, but nothing definitive.
By afternoon, I've filled three pages with notes. Questions, mostly. Why did Marcus run the light? What happened to Sarah? How many children were hurt? What does Marcus remember, and what is he blocking out?
I realize I'm treating this exactly the way I used to treat cases. The familiar rhythm of investigation feels good. It feels right.
Around six, I start getting nervous. Will Marcus come back? What if last night was a one-time thing? What if I dreamed it after all, and I'm just having some kind of elaborate breakdown?
I clean the apartment. Not because it's dirty, but because I need something to do with my hands. I vacuum, do dishes, organize the mail. Normal things that make me feel grounded.
At seven, I set the table properly. Two coffee cups, two small plates. I even put out sugar and cream, though I have no idea if ghosts can taste anything. The gesture feels important anyway.
I sit down and wait.
The minutes crawl by. I check my phone, read my notes again, drum my fingers on the table. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it really was just grief playing tricks on my mind.
Then the temperature drops.
It's subtle at first, just a slight chill. Then the air grows heavy, that same feeling from last night. I look up, and Marcus is materializing in the chair across from me. He looks more solid tonight, more present.
"You came back," I say, and immediately feel stupid for stating the obvious.
Marcus manages a small smile. "I said I would."
He looks around the table, notices the setup. The extra cup, the cream, the care I put into arranging everything.
"Thank you for this," he says quietly. "It's been a long time since anyone set a place for me."
Something about the way he says it makes my chest tight. I pour coffee into both cups, though I'm not sure he can drink it.
"Can you...?" I gesture at the cup.
Marcus reaches for it experimentally. His fingers pass through the handle on the first try, but on the second attempt, he manages to grasp it. He lifts it carefully to his lips and takes a small sip. His expression brightens slightly.
"I can taste it. Not strongly, but it's there." He sets the cup down with obvious concentration. "Everything feels muted on this side, but not gone completely."
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment. Having him here feels less shocking tonight, more natural. Almost normal.
"I looked you up today," I tell him. "Found the newspaper article about the accident."
Marcus's face changes. The small contentment fades, replaced by that heavy sadness I remember from last night.
"What did it say?"
"Not much. Just the basics. You ran a red light, hit a school bus. November 15th, 2018." I pause. "It mentioned your wife, Sarah."
At the mention of her name, Marcus flinches. Actually flinches, his whole body reacting to the word.
"Sarah," he repeats, and there's something broken in his voice.
"Tell me about that day," I say gently. "What do you remember?"
Marcus is quiet for a long time. He stares into his coffee cup, and I can see him struggling with something. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely audible.
"We had a fight. A terrible fight." He looks up at me, and his eyes are full of pain. "She was pregnant. Seven months. We were supposed to be happy, planning for the baby, but everything was falling apart."
He pauses, running his hand through his hair. The gesture looks so human, so alive, that I almost forget what he is.
"What were you fighting about?"
"Money. The future. She wanted things I couldn't give her." His voice gets smaller. "She said I was useless. That I'd never be good enough for her or the baby. That she was tired of pretending to love me."
The words hang in the air, heavy with hurt. I can see how they would cut deep, how they would drive someone to do something reckless.
"So you left," I say.
"I left. I was so angry, so hurt. I got in my car and just drove. I wasn't thinking clearly. I wasn't thinking at all." He meets my eyes. "I remember coming to the intersection. I remember seeing the light was red. And I remember not caring."
My stomach drops. "You ran it on purpose?"
"Not exactly. It wasn't suicide, if that's what you're thinking. I just... didn't stop. I saw the red light and I thought, what's the point? What's the point of following rules in a world that doesn't make sense?"
He's crying now. Not loud, dramatic sobs, but quiet tears that somehow make it worse.
"Then what happened?" I ask softly.
"Impact. The sound of metal crushing. Glass everywhere. And then..." He shakes his head. "Then nothing for a while. When I became aware again, it was much later. Years later. And I was wandering, confused, trying to understand what had happened."
"What about the children on the bus?"
This question breaks something in him. He doubles over slightly, his shoulders shaking.
"I don't know. I mean, I know some of them were hurt, but I don't know how badly. I don't know their names, their faces. That's part of what's keeping me here. I need to know what I did to them."
I reach across the table instinctively, wanting to comfort him. My hand passes right through his shoulder, and we both stare at the empty space where contact should have been.
"I can help you find out," I say. "I can investigate what happened. Find out about the children, their families."
Marcus looks at me with something that might be hope. "You would do that?"
"It's what I used to do. Investigate things. Find answers." I pause. "Besides, it seems to be what you need."
"But why? Why would you help someone like me?"
The question catches me off guard. I think about it for a moment, trying to understand my own motivations.
"Because you're here," I say finally. "Because you're asking for help. And because..." I trail off, then decide to be honest. "Because I need something to do with myself. Something that matters."
Marcus nods slowly. "Thank you. I don't deserve it, but thank you."
"Everyone deserves a chance to make things right," I say, though I'm not sure I entirely believe it.
As if sensing my doubt, Marcus begins to fade around the edges again.
"I'll come back tomorrow night," he says as he grows translucent. "Same time?"
"I'll be here."
He gives me one last grateful look before disappearing completely. I'm left alone at the table again, but this time the solitude feels different. Less empty. More like the quiet before important work begins.
I pick up my notebook and start writing down everything Marcus told me. Tomorrow, I'll start making calls, digging into records, finding the truth about what happened that November afternoon five years ago.
For the first time in months, I have a case to solve.