Chapter 1: Death Isn't the End

I ended my life. The world didn’t stop. The city still buzzed, fireworks still bloomed. Only I was missing.

It happened on New Year's Eve—the night when families are supposed to come together, when hope hangs in the air like confetti. I never imagined that my ex-husband, who'd always been colder than a Chicago winter, would lose his mind with rage at those who wronged me after I was gone. He even said he’d rather die than live without me. But when I was alive, he made it clear: love wasn’t part of the deal.

Now, as a wandering soul, I stand beside my own body. My hands tremble—or at least, the memory of fear makes them shake, even though I’m a ghost. My knees threaten to buckle. The pale, white-suited figure in front of me is the so-called Reaper. The Reaper’s shoes are polished like he’s about to audit a Fortune 500, not ferry souls. He’s flipping through a battered old ledger, the crisp suit so sharp it could cut glass, glowing weirdly in the dim bathroom light. Lavender and bleach linger in the air, and the tiles are cold, even if I can’t feel them anymore.

"What's your name?"

"Natalie Harper," I say, my voice small, wishing the Reaper would just take me—maybe let me be reborn into a family that actually wants me.

But the Reaper’s gaze lingers on the book for a long time before he looks up. "Your allotted time isn’t up, and there’s still a child inside you. Why did you end your life?"

His voice is low, almost clinical, but there’s a note of something softer there. The fluorescent light flickers overhead. A chill runs through me, as if my body could still shiver.

I glance at my own pale form, soaking in the bathtub. The water is red. My skin is almost translucent, hair fanned out like seaweed. It’s surreal, like watching a scene from a true crime doc on Netflix, one you can’t quite believe is real.

"I didn’t want to live, so I ended it."

The Reaper gets so annoyed his mustache practically twitches. He slaps the book and scolds me: "You know, offing yourself early? Down here, that’s like pulling the fire alarm when there’s no fire. Big cosmic no-no. And the child you were carrying was supposed to have a shot at life, but now…"

His words echo off the tiles. For a split second, I imagine the radiator humming, or a winter wind rattling the window—but there’s only silence. If I had a pulse, it would stutter.

God, when I ended my life, I had no idea I was pregnant.

I replay the last few weeks—missed periods chalked up to stress, a queasy stomach after my morning coffee, thinking it was just nerves. Now, the truth stings in a way nothing else ever has. I reach for my stomach, only to realize my hand passes right through. I never even knew you were there. I’m so sorry.

But after hearing his lecture, I frown. "Why are there so many rules, even for dying?"

He sighs. "There are still so many beautiful things in life for you to experience. Be good, listen, and get back into your body."

He tries to sound gentle, almost like a high school guidance counselor coaxing a lost kid back from the edge. His hands aren’t so tense now, his knuckles softer.

I think of my cold, selfish parents, my spoiled sister and brother, and then my ex-husband’s icy face.

I reply, firm: "There’s nothing beautiful in my life. Just take me away. In my next life, I’d rather be a cat or a dog."

I picture a golden retriever sprawled in a sunny Ohio front yard, or a scrappy tabby curled up by a Jersey diner, living a life with zero expectations.

No matter how the Reaper tries to persuade me, I refuse to go back.

So he says, "For those who end their own lives before their time, reincarnation is a real pain. How about this: I’ll give you a month to stay in the world as a ghost. If, in that month, you still can’t find a reason to live, I’ll help you move on."

He says it like he’s offering a one-month trial—no strings attached. The offer hangs in the cold air like a lifeline I barely want to grab.

I think it over and agree.

It’s not easy being a ghost, but sticking around for a bit might be interesting. I tell myself, maybe I’ll just watch the world from the sidelines, like a kid pressed against the glass at an aquarium. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll see something that makes me feel again.