Chapter 1: Ghosts of the World Above

Big Sis took her shot at love in the world above. When she came back, she was a ghost of herself.

Nobody in our family wanted to talk about it, but I’ll never forget how she’d stand at the window for hours, clutching a chipped mug so hard her knuckles turned white, her gaze stuck somewhere far beyond the glass. Sometimes I’d hear her mug clink against the glass, the sound sharp in the quiet, and it made the whole apartment feel colder. The sparkle she’d had was gone, replaced by a haunted silence that made me shiver even from the hallway.

Second Sis never believed it would happen to her, so she went too. Not even a month later, she came back worse off—like something vital had been hollowed out.

I’ll never forget the night she came home—her coat still damp from the rain, mascara streaked down her cheeks, like she’d been running from something only she could see. She just clung to her coat, shaking, unable to say what had happened. Her eyes looked hollow, dark circles blooming like bruises, and for weeks she’d jump at every phone ring, like she was bracing for bad news.

Ms. Porter found my hiding spot and asked why I hadn’t gone yet.

I’d wedged myself behind the old file cabinets in the back office, where the smell of burnt coffee and lemon Pledge lingered. Ms. Porter didn’t bother knocking, just poked her head in, eyes as sharp as ever. “Quinn, honey, you can’t hide back here forever. What’s keeping you?”

Of course I wouldn’t go.

Because I know the world’s full of greed and heartbreak. I’d spend half my life working myself to the bone for some guy, just to end up broken in the end.

I could already picture the long hours at some dead-end job, coming home to cold leftovers, and the empty, echoing ache after yet another disappointment. I’d seen it play out enough in my last life to know: there’s no glory in rolling those dice again.

If I can stick it out a hundred years at the River of Forgetfulness, I can take over for Ms. Porter and never have to relive the nightmare of my last life. I pressed my back harder against the cold metal, wishing I could just melt into the wall.

I told myself that every day. The river was gray and slow, sometimes choked with mist, but at least here, nothing could surprise me. Ms. Porter said I had a knack for organization and patience, which in this business was as good as gold.

On this day, like always, I was making soup for Ms. Porter.

It was an old routine—pot bubbling on the battered hot plate, the air thick with earthy herbs. Ms. Porter liked it just so: bitter, healing, a taste that clung to your tongue and chased away bad dreams, or so she claimed. It felt like home, in its odd, underworld way.

The Judge brought a big-shot guest from the Upper Court to the Bridge of No Return, looking for someone.

The Bridge itself was creaky, its wooden slats groaning with every step, draped in fog that never lifted. The Judge—Mr. McMillan, a guy with a pressed suit and tired eyes—marched in with this guest who looked like he belonged in a corporate boardroom, not the land between lives.

“Quinn, have you seen a woman named Jane Carter?” he asked.

I looked up, dazed.

The name sounded like a stone dropped in a still pond—ripples of old pain, old lives. My hands gripped the spoon tight, knuckles white.

The one who’d come was my husband from my last life—the very same man who’d come down to earth for his own trial.

I felt my chest seize up. Time didn’t mean much here, but memories sure did. He looked different—sharper, colder—but there was no mistaking him. That posture, that jawline clenched in judgment.

He’d gone by the name Derek Lawson, ripped out my spine, and tossed me into Shadow Valley, all so he could make a new body for his childhood sweetheart back on earth.

The words replayed in my mind like an old voicemail: the crunch, the betrayal, the helplessness. Derek had always been decisive—ruthless when it mattered, especially if it was for Lila. I’d been nothing more than a stepping stone to him, something to be used up and thrown away.

But in this life, I’ve never even set foot in the mortal world…

I glanced at the soup, steam rising, and told myself that was enough. I wasn’t Jane Carter anymore, not really. I was Quinn now. And I was not about to give up the small, predictable life I’d scraped together here.