Anniversary of a Broken Promise

"Lila?"

I glared at him. "Hmph, as long as I’m here, don’t even think about smoking!"

It felt good to say it out loud, even if he couldn’t hear me. Old habits, like I said. I stuck out my tongue at him, invisible sass and all.

"So now you’re a lonely ghost and I can’t see you?"

Excuse me? Lonely ghost? I have an official job!

I puffed up, indignant. "I’ll have you know, I’m a government employee!" If only he could hear me brag. Still, it stung a little, the way he said it—like he was talking to the empty seat, not to me.

His phone rang urgently. The person on the other end said something, and his face instantly darkened.

He muttered something sharp, jaw clenching. Whatever he heard, it wasn’t good. I watched him, worry prickling at the edges of my ghostly heart. Some things never change, I guess—always wanting to fix things for him.

I didn’t care to listen, so I floated away.

Sometimes, it’s easier not to know. The living have their own messes, and I had my own mysteries to solve. The world felt heavier every time I came back, like gravity was trying to pull me down into old habits, old pain.

Passing by the old stone bridge nearby, I suddenly stopped, as if something was holding me back. A huge patch of red appeared on the ground, and my whole body ached intensely.

The bridge loomed over the river, moss creeping up the stones. I hovered there, unable to move, as a wave of pain crashed through me—sharp, blinding, the kind that makes you forget your own name. The ground beneath me shimmered, stained red, and I felt the ache in every bone, every memory. It was as if the place itself remembered what happened, even if I didn’t.

But it didn’t last. After a while, flashes of memory rushed through my mind, giving me a splitting headache, but I still couldn’t remember anything.

Images flickered—my mom’s face, Carter’s arms, a phone screen, the cold wind on the bridge. None of it made sense. My head throbbed, and for a moment, I wished I could just forget it all, let the river wash it away. But I couldn’t. Not yet.

I floated home. The place was spotless, clearly cleaned regularly. On a cabinet sat a memorial portrait—my mom’s. I knelt and bowed my head.

Our little house was just as I left it—sunlight streaming through the curtains, the faint scent of lavender in the air. Mom’s photo smiled down at me, gentle and proud. I knelt, pressing my forehead to the hardwood, wishing I could feel her arms around me one more time. It hurt, missing her, even after all this time.

After passing the civil service exam, I had access to the Book of Life and Death from previous years. It showed my mom had already moved on, reincarnated into a new life. After people die, they can choose to stay in the Underworld or reincarnate. I didn’t reincarnate—Saint Peter said I still had unfinished business.

I pictured Mom, somewhere out there, maybe a baby in a new family, maybe a wild spirit roaming the fields. She always said she wanted me to be happy, to find my own path. I stayed behind, clinging to unfinished business, to questions I couldn’t answer. Saint Peter—tall, patient, with the kindest eyes—told me I wasn’t done yet. I guess he was right.

What was my obsession back then? Hmm, I forgot. Probably had something to do with how I died.