**The Ghost**
Oliver was driving back home after visiting his parents. They lived in an old cottage in the countryside, which always needed upkeep. His father had been struggling with his heart lately, so Oliver made sure to take on the heavier chores whenever he visited—fixing the fence, fetching water from the well for the garden, then for the bath, running errands with his mum. By the time supper was over, he was ready to leave.
“Stay the night, love,” his mother urged. “It’s late, and the roads are dark.”
But Oliver had promised Emily he’d be home. Just as he was about to set off, he rang her, and she too insisted he stay until morning.
“Don’t you miss me?” he teased, pretending to be hurt.
“Of course I do,” Emily laughed. “I’ve been waiting.”
“Then I’ll be back soon,” Oliver said cheerfully.
The sun had long set, and the road was quiet, bathed in the cool, eerie glow of twilight. Only when he was behind the wheel did Oliver realise how tired he was. Cars passed him now and then, their headlights blinding him for a moment. Then, just as he was nearing the city, he shut his eyes for just a second…
“Emily, I’m home!” Oliver called out as he stepped into the flat.
Silence. He peeked into the kitchen—there she was, standing at the stove, humming a tune under her breath while stirring something in the pan. The smell of frying meat filled the air, and for the first time in ages, Oliver felt weightless, as if he’d woken from a deep, dreamless sleep.
“Em,” he tried again.
She didn’t respond.
*Probably her earbuds*, he thought, stepping closer—but she wasn’t wearing any.
“I missed you,” he murmured near her ear.
Emily paused, listening for something.
“There you are,” he grinned. “Thought you’d gone deaf.”
In the next instant, Emily clapped a lid on the pan, turned off the gas, and spun around—Oliver barely dodged in time.
“What’s wrong? Can’t you hear me? Look at me!”
She moved past him, inches away, as if he weren’t there. Then her phone rang. She rushed into the living room, snatched it up, hesitated, then answered.
“Yes, this is her.” A pause. “No, that can’t be right—” The phone slipped from her fingers. She crumpled onto the sofa, face in her hands, sobbing.
“Emily, what’s happened? Is it Dad? His heart?” But she didn’t hear him.
He crouched before her, tried to pull her hands away—and recoiled when his fingers passed right through hers like mist. He stared at his own hands in horror. Emily lifted her head, her tear-filled gaze sweeping right past him.
“Ollie?” she whispered.
“I’m right here.”
But her eyes only roamed the room, unfocused.
“No, it can’t be… Ollie!” she wailed.
Snatching up her phone, she dialled with shaking fingers, mispressing twice before finally connecting.
“Aunt Margaret, I just got a call— No, Oliver’s not back yet. The police said—” Her voice broke. “A car crash near the city… He’s gone.”
She dropped the phone and wept like a wounded thing.
*Me? I crashed? I’m dead?* Oliver couldn’t believe it. Yet here he stood, in his own home, unseen, unheard. *That’s why I don’t remember driving back, climbing the stairs. Like I blacked out. Or like I was never really here.*
“Ollie, how can I go on? What do I do?” Emily buried her face in the cushions.
He reached out—then let his hand hover. He remembered films about ghosts, the ones he’d dismissed as fantasy. *How long do I have? Where are the guides? Someone must explain…*
Time blurred. Morning came. Emily was gone. He didn’t recall where *he* had been. Then, without warning, he was pulled—somewhere else. A cold, tiled room. A metal table. A body on a gurney. His own face, bloodied, broken. His mother, weeping into a handkerchief. His father’s arm around her. Emily, standing apart, staring at the body.
They left the morgue. A taxi waited.
“Come with us, love,” his mother begged Emily.
But Emily only shook her head.
As his parents got into the car, Oliver overheard his mother murmur, “The flat… we helped buy it in his name. She’s not even on the lease. She should go back to her mum.”
“Maggie, *now*?” his father snapped.
“We still have Paul. He’ll marry soon. Emily—if only they’d had children…”
Oliver flinched. *Didn’t expect that from you, Mum.*
The taxi drove off. He returned to Emily, walking beside her like a shadow as she trudged home.
For hours, she sat motionless on the sofa, the untouched meal still in the pan.
“Listen,” Oliver said, willing her to understand. “The blue folder—there’s life insurance. £50,000. Enough for a small flat.”
Emily stood, opened the drawer, pulled out the folder—then set it down.
*Good. You’ll see it later.* He’d never told her about the policy. A coworker had drowned last year, leaving a family in financial ruin. That’s when he’d signed up. *Just in case.*
“Ollie, how do I live without you?” she whispered. “We should’ve… had a child…”
“Who knew, Em?” he murmured, watching until her sobs turned to exhausted sleep.
At the funeral, friends and colleagues gathered, spoke kind words, then moved on—back to their lives. Oliver stood by the grave, watching as Emily lingered, the last to leave, arms hanging as if weighed down.
He didn’t follow her. Something kept him there. Then—a shift in the air. A shimmer. A light above, warm, calling.
Oliver didn’t resist.
The pull was too strong, too right. He knew, with sudden certainty, that he was going where he belonged. The love he carried with him was nothing compared to the love drawing him forward.
And he let go.
