Chapter 6: The World Moves On

On the first day of the new year, every household is filled with joy.

The neighborhood comes alive with laughter, the clatter of pans, the distant pop of fireworks left over from midnight. Frost coats the windows, but inside, families gather around big-screen TVs and plates of scrambled eggs.

My family is joyful too.

I sit on the bathroom vanity, watching myself soak in the bathtub. The whole bathroom is drenched in red. Aside from being a bit creepy, it’s actually kind of festive.

Red towels, red bathmat, the harsh pink light from the old bulb overhead—it almost feels like someone’s decorated for Valentine’s Day in the worst way possible.

Around seven or eight in the morning, every household starts bustling.

Neighbors’ voices drift in through the vents—someone’s arguing over burnt toast, a little kid shrieking about lost Legos. The world carries on, oblivious.

The smell of burnt toast and coffee drifts through the vents, mixing with the sound of cartoons blaring two floors down.

The neighbors are making pancakes, the sound of chopping filling the air with energy.

Somewhere, an old radio is playing Motown classics. I almost tap my foot to the beat.

Downstairs, someone is frying catfish. The aroma drifts up through the vents. I touch my stomach, remembering I hadn’t eaten for two days before I died.

The smell hits me like a punch—greasy, rich, mouthwatering. I never thought hunger would follow me into the afterlife.

After downing a bottle of red wine, I lay in the bathtub. The wine was cheap, the kind that leaves a headache behind even after death. I wonder if ghosts get hangovers.

Now, smelling these scents, I start to regret not eating my fill before I died.

There’s a strange ache in my chest, as if regret could fill a stomach.

Dying during New Year’s is one thing, but becoming a hungry ghost is something else.

I’m just wondering whether to float over to the neighbor’s to watch her make pancakes, or go downstairs to see the catfish, when someone knocks on my door.

The sound is sharp, insistent. For a moment, I almost forget I’m dead.

Who could be coming to my house at this hour?

I start searching my social circle in my mind. After college, I became a full-time housewife, lost touch with old friends, and couldn’t fit in with the rich wives’ circle—so I have almost no friends.

I run through the list—barista at the corner coffee shop, neighbor’s kid who sometimes borrows sugar. No one fits.

Could it be a delivery?

While thinking if I had any undelivered Amazon packages, I float to the door.

I look through the peephole—and when I see who’s outside, I freeze.

Why is Derek at my door?

The sight of him sends a cold shock through me. He never comes here unannounced. My hand—if I had one—would be trembling on the doorknob.