I thought winning would be louder.
Celebrations.
Relief.
Joy.
Instead, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
—
The city slept under my control, yet my mind refused to rest.
Every enemy was gone.
Every threat neutralized.
So why did my chest still feel heavy?
—
I stood in my penthouse, lights off, watching my reflection in the glass.
I looked powerful.
Untouchable.
But power doesn't erase memory.
—
The ghost came without warning.
Not a person.
A moment.
The night I signed the papers that ruined me in my past life.
The ink shaking in my hand.
The smile on my sister's face.
—
I closed my eyes.
I had punished them.
Publicly. Completely.
So why did it still ache?
—
Because revenge ends conflict, not history.
—
I sat down.
For the first time in months, I allowed myself to feel it.
The grief.
Not for them.
For the girl I had been.
The one who trusted love.
The one who believed loyalty was permanent.
—
She never got justice.
I did.
That was the difference.
—
A message appeared on my phone.
Unknown number.
You forgot something.
My pulse slowed.
Not fear.
Recognition.
—
I typed back once.
I don't forget.
The typing bubble appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then you know what comes next.
—
I deleted the message.
Some ghosts don't want revenge.
They want acknowledgment.
—
I poured a drink.
Not to celebrate.
To close a chapter.
—
The past would never disappear.
But it no longer controlled me.
I controlled it.
—