Dinner arrived on a metal tray, pushed carefully into the room by a nurse who avoided holding my gaze for more than a second. It wasn't carelessness. It was a choice. People learn quickly how to look away when someone's time begins to feel too short for long conversations.
The sound of the tray touching the bedside table echoed louder than it should have in the quiet room. A dry, clinical sound. Final.
Soup. Bread. Something that resembled meat, though it carried the bland, erased taste of everything served when pleasure is no longer expected—only sustenance. Survival. Eating to remain here a little longer.
I held the spoon with a weakened hand, the weight of the metal feeling heavier than it truly was. My arm ached. Everything ached. Not a sharp pain, not something easy to name—just a deep exhaustion lodged in my bones, as if my body were tired of holding itself together.
I ate slowly, more out of habit than hunger. Each spoonful was automatic, mechanical, repeated so many times it no longer required thought. Eat. Swallow. Breathe. Eat. Swallow. Breathe.
That was when I felt it.
Not in my body.
But somewhere deeper.
A faint chill ran through something that didn't physically hurt but still reacted. A presence. A subtle shift in the air. An invisible weight I was beginning to recognize, even while refusing to fully accept it.
I lifted my eyes without turning my head.
The ghost was there.
She sat in the chair across the room, leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees, watching my every movement as if I were performing some ancient ritual. There was no fear on her face—only pure, almost childlike curiosity.
— That… — she murmured, her voice low, reverent. — That's food?
I kept chewing, my expression completely neutral, as though no one else existed in the room but me and the tasteless soup. Pretending normalcy had already become a survival instinct.
— The smell is different… — she stood slowly and stepped closer. — In my time, it wasn't like this. You add so many things… so many colors… so many flavors.
I ignored her.
My mother sat near the window, scrolling through her phone with movements too repetitive to be natural. Pretending distraction. Pretending calm. As always. Through the reflection in the glass, I saw her eyes checking on me every few seconds, as if counting my breaths.
If I reacted to the ghost—if I spoke, smiled, answered—it wouldn't end well. Not for me. Not for her.
— Do you always eat alone like this? — she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, her legs swinging in the air as though they still carried weight. — It's strange… you eat so fast. In my home, meals lasted for hours. Conversations. Laughter. Sometimes arguments.
I swallowed the soup with effort. A metallic taste lingered.
I wiped my mouth with the napkin, fighting the tremor in my hands.
— And that bread… — she leaned closer, curious — may I try?
She reached out.
Her hand passed through it.
She stared at her fingers for a long moment, as though expecting the world to suddenly remember her. As though something might still change.
Then she laughed.
A light, almost childish laugh that didn't belong to someone who had been dead for over a century.
— I forget sometimes — she said softly. — I don't taste… but I still feel the desire.
I closed my eyes for a second.
The exhaustion settled heavily—not just physical exhaustion, but the fatigue of existing while constantly alert, of pretending the world still made sense when it clearly didn't.
— Henry? — my mother called. — Are you managing to eat?
— Yeah — I answered shortly, without looking up.
The ghost tilted her head, studying her.
— She worries so much — she whispered. — You can feel it. Fear… love… all tangled together.
She's always been like that, I thought. I didn't say it.
The ghost kept talking. About the smell of the food. About the strange clothes the nurses wore. About how everything here felt too fast, too detached. I kept my face still, my gaze fixed on the tray, as if nothing were happening.
Until the door opened.
— Mrs. Miller? — the psychologist called, wearing a smile trained to look gentle. — May we talk for a moment?
My mother stood immediately, almost relieved.
— Of course.
Before leaving, she touched my shoulder with excessive care, as though I might break.
— Eat properly, okay?
I nodded.
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
The room fell into a different kind of silence. Not a peaceful one—but the kind left behind after too much effort, after holding too many words inside.
I exhaled slowly, as if I'd been holding my breath for far too long.
— You walk barefoot — I said suddenly.
She blinked, startled, as if pulled from a distant thought.
— What?
— Your feet — I continued, looking down. — You're wearing only one stocking.
She looked at herself, examining her body as if for the first time in ages. Then she laughed, genuinely amused.
— Oh… that.
She lifted the hem of her old dress slightly.
— I died without my shoes.
I didn't react.
She noticed.
Slowly, she sat on the floor, crossing her legs as though that gesture still meant something.
— I was running — she began quietly. — There were men after me. Not soldiers… worse. I never learned how to swim. I never needed to.
My stomach twisted.
— There was a lake there — she continued, vaguely pointing toward the garden. — Where that concrete wing stands now. I slipped. The water was cold. Very cold.
She spoke without drama. Without urgency. Like someone who had told the story to herself so many times it had lost its sharpness—though not its weight.
— I struggled — she said. — But my clothes were heavy. And no one came.
Silence stretched between us.
— Then… — she shrugged — I woke up like this. Alone.
I looked at her properly for the first time.
There was no horror on her face. Only tired acceptance. A presence that continued without ever being asked to.
— How long have you been dead? — I asked.
She thought for a moment.
— A long time. More than a century, perhaps.
— And you never… — I hesitated — never left?
She frowned.
— Left where?
— The afterlife — I replied. — Heaven. Hell. Reincarnation.
She laughed.
Not mockingly. In disbelief.
— Oh, Henry… if such a place exists, no one ever told me how to get there.
I breathed in deeply.
— Then why you? — I asked. — Why are you still here?
She shook her head.
— I don't know.
I picked up my phone from the bedside table. Searched aimlessly—why ghosts stay, restless spirits, anything that resembled an answer. Nothing made sense.
— What is that? — she asked, leaning closer. — That little box… I see people using it all the time in the garden.
— Internet — I replied. — Information. Everything mixed together.
Her eyes lit up.
— You carry the world inside that?
— More or less.
I opened the camera.
— Want to see something?
I pointed it at her.
Nothing.
Just the empty room.
I laughed, nervous.
— It doesn't work for you.
She looked disappointed for half a second, then brightened when I turned the camera toward myself and snapped a photo.
I showed her.
She covered her mouth.
— That's incredible — she whispered. — In my time, I had to stand still for hours to be drawn.
The door opened.
My mother came back in.
She saw my smile.
— Henry… — she said slowly — what's going on?
I looked at her.
The smile faded.
— Nothing.
She stepped closer.
— You seem different today. More present. I wanted so much that—
— Stop — I cut in.
She froze.
— I'm going to die — I said flatly. — In three months. Stop pretending that will change.
Her face crumbled.
Without a word, she went into the bathroom.
The ghost stood still.
Then she followed her.
Returned moments later.
— You were cruel — she said.
— I was realistic.
— You were ungrateful.
I ignored her.
— Three months — she continued — are still days. Still mornings. Still moments.
She looked straight at me.
— If I had three months… I would step on the earth every day. Even knowing I would sink at the end.
The words stayed.
Heavy.
Silent.
And for the first time, I didn't know what to say.