Chapter 3: The Ashes and the Afterlife

The door opened again, and a bridal carriage was rolled in.

A middle-aged woman in vintage clothes, wearing a feathered hat and holding a red silk handkerchief, appeared.

A shrill voice called out:

“Bride, get in the carriage.”

The bridesmaids locked my hands with a golden lock, then lifted my arms and shoved me into the carriage.

The matchmaker glanced at me, her black eyes smiling. “New bride, new bride, get in the carriage, bow in the hall, smile beneath the veil.”

I braced my legs against the carriage. “Bride your grandpa, marry your grandma’s leg! Let me go!” (In my hometown, that’s basically cursing someone out—like, ‘Marry your own grandma!’)

No matter how I struggled, I was forced into the carriage.

Inside, all four sides were sealed. Kicking and pounding was useless.

At that moment, I realized I really had encountered a ghost.

Someone lifted the carriage. The brass band blared on, and the matchmaker’s nursery rhyme droned:

“New bride, new bride, get in the carriage, bow in the hall, smile beneath the veil, cross the hills and step over the river, bride and groom bow to parents, drink the nuptial wine and enter the bridal chamber, be a loving couple in the next life.”

I thought, I shouldn’t have come to this hotel—now I was being forced into a ghost wedding in the middle of the night.

How did I end up like this?

I really missed my mom.

Helpless and desperate, I burst into tears.

Until the carriage curtain was lifted and a bloodless hand reached out to me.

His voice sounded familiar. “Emma, come out.”

I shrank back in fear.

He seemed to lose patience and stuck his head inside.

A hideous face stared at me. “Give me your hand.”

I recognized him—he was a former coworker. He’d pursued me for a long time.

Because I didn’t like him, I kept turning him down.

One day, he asked me to go to the rooftop, threatening to jump if I didn’t agree to date him.

He ended up falling from the 24th floor and died instantly.

“Ben Monroe, please, let me go,” I begged, sobbing.

The man in front of me leaned in close, a sinister smile on his face. “Emma, I love you very much, very, very much.”

“Will you marry me?”

I shrank as far back as I could, tears streaming down my face in terror.

“I’ll ask you again—will you marry me?”

I shook my head.

Ben grabbed my arm and yanked me out of the carriage.

Outside was an old mansion, draped in red silk and lanterns, big red wedding signs pasted on the doors and windows.

Ben wore a dark red wedding suit and dragged me toward the main hall.

“Let me go! We’re from different worlds. There’s no way for us,” I shouted.

Ben grinned, his mouth bloody. “Emma, what are you talking about? We’re both ghosts.”

I stared at him in disbelief.

Ben’s cold, wet hand gently stroked my forehead. “Does it hurt here?”

As he spoke, he pressed down hard, and excruciating pain shot through my body.

It hurt—every bone and limb ached.

The world spun. I saw the scene on the rooftop from the day of the incident.

Ben stood on the rooftop, threatening to jump. Police, firefighters, and ambulances were there.

There were a lot of people on the rooftop.

The police and firefighters tried to talk him down.

Ben said he wanted to see me, but I didn’t want to go up.

A lot of people came to find me, begging me to go up and persuade him.

Ben’s parents knelt in front of me, pleading, “He likes you so much, please go up and talk him down, please.”

Colleagues and supervisors tried to persuade me too.

Everyone was pushing me—as if I’d be a murderer if I didn’t go up.

They even pulled out their phones to record me.

I was forced to stand on the platform.

“Come closer.”

That was the first thing Ben said to me when I got to the rooftop.

Someone behind me pushed me forward, so I had to inch closer to the edge. “Ben, whatever it is, come down and we’ll talk calmly, okay?”

I tried to reason with him.

Ben just kept telling me to come closer.

I didn’t dare.

“Come down, I’m afraid of heights.”

Ben suddenly stepped back. “If you don’t come over, I’ll jump.”

I turned around helplessly, looking at the rescuers for help.

They told me to go up, said nothing would happen.

Torn inside, I stepped up onto the concrete ledge.

Ben hugged me, his head buried in my neck, perversely sucking my skin.

“Emma Parker, I love you so much. Will you be my girlfriend?”

I stood on the ledge, just a fist away from a 24-story drop.

“Ben, let’s talk downstairs, okay?” I tried to keep my voice steady, even though I was disgusted.

He bit my neck angrily and said fiercely, “You rejected me seven times, and now you’re rejecting me again. Then let’s die together.”

Ben hugged me and jumped off the 24th floor.

As we fell, I saw people rushing to the edge.

I felt the terror of weightlessness, adrenaline flooding my body, my mind in overdrive, time slowing down.

In that instant, I regretted everything. I shouldn’t have gone to the rooftop. I didn’t want to die.

The moment we hit the ground, I heard my skull crack, pain shooting through every bone. Warm blood soaked my face, my nose and throat filled with blood—I couldn’t breathe.

In my last second, I heard people screaming and crying.

My soul climbed up from the ground and followed the hearse to the funeral home.

I saw my mom faint from crying, and my dad—he didn’t cry, but his hair turned white overnight.

On the third day after my death, I was placed in a small box.

Because of hometown customs, a child who dies young and unmarried must wait three years before burial. (In some places, families keep the ashes of unmarried children for a period of time, hoping to find closure or a symbolic marriage in the afterlife.)

So my family kept my ashes in the Hall of Rest.

On the seventh day after death—the night the soul returns—I went home to see my parents. They sat silently in the living room, the table full of my favorite dishes, snacks, and fruits.

They lit candles and left plates of food for me.

I stayed with them late into the night.

On the eighth day, I lost the memory of my death and arrived in the underworld.

Turns out, everything that happened at home was because of me—I’d forgotten I was a ghost.

Mrs. Sanders with a daughter was my neighbor before I died, not the Mrs. Sanders from the block.

Sunny didn’t die. My dad, afraid I’d be lonely, burned a paper cat for me. (In some Asian cultures, families burn paper replicas—like paper cats or money—as offerings to their loved ones in the afterlife.)

No wonder the receptionist at the animal hospital said I’d forgotten.

The white mist at night was the incense my mom burned for me.

The phone call was a dream message.