Chapter 1: Ashes and Echoes

I've read so many of those stories—where the husband only realizes what he’s lost at the funeral home, chasing after his wife when it’s already too late. You know the type. Those stories. I never thought I’d end up the heroine in one myself.

It always seemed like something that happened to someone else—like the sort of woman who ends up as a cautionary tale in a novel everyone passes around. Not me, Harper Lane from Riverbend, Massachusetts. The kind of story you roll your eyes at, then secretly devour with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, thinking, 'That would never be my life.'

Except, in my case, there was no chasing the wife. Just the crematorium. No fanfare.

No dramatic airport chases. No grand gestures. No last-minute apologies. Just the cold, clinical reality of a stainless steel tray and the silence that follows. That’s it. That’s all. No second chances. Just ashes.

Because I really died.

No metaphor, no exaggeration. And I don’t mean heartbreak. Or some dramatic metaphor. I mean the real thing—heartbeat gone, body zipped up, the works. Now I’m just a wisp, a memory, lingering in the places I once called home.

Now, as a soul, I watch the man who let me down. Seven days after I died. That’s when it finally hit him. Like the grief finally catches up with him, and he collapses in our home—the home I can never return to—howling in despair.

He sits there, crumpled on the living room floor, the kind of ugly, raw crying you only see in movies when everything’s lost. His hands clutching his hair, rocking back and forth like a kid who’s lost his way. The sound echoes off the walls, filling the space where my laughter used to be.

How do I feel?

I just stand there, numb, taking in every trace of pain on his face. I listen to every desperate sob. All because I’m gone.

I’m not sure if I’m supposed to feel pity, anger, or relief. Instead, I feel like a ghost at my own wake. Watching a play I know by heart, but unable to change the ending. My heart should ache for him, but mostly, I just feel empty.

And then, amid the hollow sadness in my heart, a wave of cruel satisfaction washes over me.

It comes sharp and sudden, like the zing of biting into a lemon. For once, I’m the one with the upper hand. For once, he’s the one begging, and I’m untouchable. It’s petty, but I can’t help it.

There’s a word for it—schadenfreude. And damn, it feels good. A wild, liberating schadenfreude.

The pain almost feels exhilarating—I cover my mouth and laugh out loud.

My laugh rings out, echoing through the empty apartment. It’s not pretty. Not the kind of laugh he used to love. It’s sharp, almost mean. For the first time, I let myself enjoy his misery. It feels like justice.

Even in death, I'm more convinced than ever that Mason Caldwell probably never loved me.

I mean, really—how could he? If love leaves you this cold, this alone, was it ever love at all? Standing here, invisible, I see the truth more clearly than I ever did when I was alive.

When the police called Mason to ask him to come to the morgue and identify my body, he thought it was just another prank—something I might have cooked up with friends. He probably thought it was just my way of making up.

He rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath about how I was always so dramatic. He probably thought I was hiding around the corner, waiting to jump out and surprise him. The idea that I could actually be gone never crossed his mind.

Because right before I died, we'd had an argument. Because right before I died, we'd had an argument. I'd seen a message from his ex-girlfriend on his phone—just a normal work conversation, nothing shady, but my insecurities and jealousy got the better of me.

The message was innocent enough—something about a deposition schedule. But seeing her name, Alexis Monroe, pop up on his screen made my stomach twist. I knew, logically, it was nothing. But logic and love? Never my thing.

His ex-girlfriend, the so-called 'white moonlight' in his heart. He never deleted their photos from his phone, yet after all this time together, I still didn't have a single picture with him. Not one. Not even a blurry selfie.

It stung every time I scrolled through his camera roll. Photos of Alexis at graduation, Alexis at the beach, Alexis at some law firm gala. Me? Not even a selfie in the background. Sometimes, I wondered if I was just a placeholder, a shadow in his real love story.

The night before, he had a fever of 102°F. I stayed by his side all night, caring for him. But in his feverish delirium, the name he called out was still hers.

I pressed a cold washcloth to his forehead. Whispered all the right things. Tried to get him to drink. But when he finally mumbled a name, it wasn’t mine. It was Alexis. My heart cracked, but I swallowed the pain and kept caring for him anyway.

All these little things piled up, until today, when my emotions finally erupted.

It was like a slow leak that finally burst the dam. I couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t hurt. The words came out sharp and ugly, the way they always do when you’ve held them in too long.

In the end, Mason just said, exhausted, "Harper, quit messing around."

He just said, flat: “Harper, quit messing around.”

He didn’t even look at me. It was like I was a stranger in my own home. I remember the way his eyes glazed over, already somewhere else, already done with the fight.

He called me by my full name, so distant. But on Messenger, he called his ex-girlfriend 'Lexi'—an intimate nickname. Why not call Alexis Monroe by her full name too? I used to wonder. Why couldn’t I be ‘Harps’ or ‘Honey’ or something soft? Never. That was always for someone else.

I used to imagine what it would feel like to be called something soft, something just for me. But with Mason, I was always 'Harper.' Never 'Harps' or 'Honey' or anything warm. That was reserved for someone else.

Mason said I was being unreasonable.

He didn’t even raise his voice. He just sighed, like he was tired of dealing with a child. The way you talk to someone you’ve already given up on. It hurt more than yelling would have.

It hurt more than yelling would have.

He didn't understand that this was just the tip of the iceberg. I didn't want the argument to get worse, so I slammed the door and left.

I grabbed my purse, keys jangling, the sound of the door slamming behind me echoing down the hallway. I hoped, stupidly, that he’d come after me. He never did.

I never expected it. That that would be my last time.

Funny how you never know when the last time is. You always think there will be another chance to make things right. But life isn’t a TV drama. Sometimes, the credits roll before you’re ready.

After the fight, I wanted to cool off by shopping at the mall.

Retail therapy—my go-to move when life gets too heavy. I wandered past the perfume counters and window displays, trying to convince myself that a new dress would fix everything.

But I ran into a psycho.

One second, I was comparing shades of lipstick. The next, chaos erupted. Screaming, people running. It all happened so fast, I barely had time to react.

Life is unpredictable. Just like that, I was killed.

No warning. No slow-motion hero music. Just a flash of steel, a burst of pain... and then darkness. I never even got to say goodbye.

The police called Mason to identify the body.

He was annoyed. Impatient. Probably thought I was pulling another stunt. His voice was clipped, irritated, as if he were talking to a telemarketer.

Mason frowned, impatient, and snapped into the phone, "Harper, are you done? Can you stop being so childish?"

He never imagined, not for a second, that I was really gone. He was so sure of me, so sure I’d always come back.

After he hung up, the police called again.

"Hello, please don't hang up. We're with the Riverbend Police Department. This isn't a prank. Are you Mr. Mason Caldwell? Do you know Harper Lane? She was killed in the mall. Please come to the station to identify the body as soon as possible."

The officer’s voice was gentle but firm, the kind of tone they must practice for moments like this. There was no room for misunderstanding.

In the cramped, suffocating morgue, my body lay under a white sheet, only one arm exposed, streaked with dried blood.

The air was cold, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, with that faint chemical smell that clings to every surface. My body looked small and fragile, nothing like the person I used to be. The only thing that seemed real was the tattoo on my wrist.

The officer said, "Please take a look. Is the deceased your girlfriend, Harper Lane?" He moved to lift the sheet from my face.

But Mason grabbed his wrist, his gaze fixed on my exposed arm, where a rose tattoo—formed by the letters 'MC'—stood out starkly against the blood-stained skin.

His hand trembled as he stared at the tattoo. For a moment, I thought he might actually break down. But then he pulled himself together, as always, hiding behind that wall of composure.

I remember when I first got that tattoo, I excitedly showed it to Mason. He was furious. Said tattooing his name was reckless.

He said it was reckless, that I’d regret it someday. But deep down, I hoped he’d see it as proof of my devotion. I wanted to give him something permanent, something he could never doubt.

But at the time, his grandmother had just passed away. In his grief, he said he was alone in the world from then on.

He sat on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, eyes red from crying. I wanted so badly to comfort him, to make him feel less alone. That’s when I decided to get the tattoo.

So I got the tattoo.

It hurt, but I didn’t care. I wanted something that would always tie me to him, even if he never really wanted it.

I just wanted to bring him a little happiness.

I thought maybe, just maybe, it would make him smile again. That it would remind him someone was still here for him.

I pointed at it. Swore, "The rose means I'll always be with you. Mason, you'll never be alone."

I remember the look in his eyes—a mix of gratitude and something else, something I couldn’t quite name. Maybe fear. Maybe guilt.

I've forgotten how he reacted, but I was moved by my own gesture for a long time. Looking back, maybe his anger was really about feeling burdened.

I see that now. Back then, I thought love meant giving everything, even if it wasn’t wanted. Maybe I was wrong.