Chapter 5: Love, Loss, and Letting Go

The old man saw our little gesture and fumed: "Flirting at a time like this? Fine, you’ll both be mine!"

He threw out black talismans—obviously evil.

They fluttered through the air, landing around us in a circle.

Michael pulled me aside, told me to hide, and started fighting the old man.

He moved with surprising speed, dodging spells and countering with his own.

I have to say, a man fighting in a suit is seriously hot!

I fanned myself, even as my heart raced with fear.

I cheered from behind a flower bed.

"Go, Michael! Kick his creepy old butt!"

At first, the old man was losing, but then he pulled out a powerful book, chanting and making hand signs.

The air grew thick with energy. Michael stumbled, sweat beading on his forehead.

Michael’s movements slowed. I got anxious.

I bit my lip, desperate to help.

Just as he was about to collapse, I ran over and hugged his waist: "What’s wrong?"

He leaned into me, voice weak. "The book... it’s draining me."

He shook his head painfully. The old man kept chanting, so I covered Michael’s ears, but it didn’t help.

I tried everything—shouting, waving my arms—but nothing worked.

Finally, he couldn’t hold on and collapsed.

He slumped to the ground, eyes fluttering shut.

The old man put away the book, smug: "Even a thousand-year-old ghost can’t withstand my scripture, let alone a young one."

He cackled, stepping over Michael’s body.

He came to take Michael. I blocked him, but he pulled out a bottle of mysterious liquid, grinning cruelly: "If you won’t let me take him, I’ll dissolve him right here and feed him to my spirits."

He uncorked the bottle, the liquid inside swirling ominously.

I couldn’t stop him and watched as he poured the liquid on Michael. His body turned blue.

I screamed, reaching for him, but my hands passed right through.

The old man was thrilled: "What a fine soul! After using the talisman, binding him is perfect!" He laughed maniacally.

He danced around the clearing, bottle in hand.

I sat there, staring as that familiar face turned blue. My heart ached.

It felt like someone had punched a hole in my chest.

Such a strange feeling.

I hugged my knees, rocking back and forth.

At first, I wanted to get rid of this clingy ghost, but now, why did it hurt so much?

The tears came before I could stop them.

I wiped my eyes and realized I was crying.

I sobbed, clutching my chest. The pain was sharp and real.

Michael is dead... he’s really gone...

The world felt emptier, colder.

Watching the old man take his soul, I snapped out of it and, fueled by desperation, rushed to snatch the bottle: "Give him back!"

I lunged at him, nails digging into his arm.

The old man shoved me away, and my leg got sliced by a sharp piece of iron from the flower bed.

Blood poured down my calf, but I didn’t feel a thing. I just charged at him again.

Pain was nothing compared to losing Michael.

I didn’t know if it mattered, but I couldn’t let him take Michael.

I screamed his name, refusing to give up.

Just then, a cold wind swept through.

The temperature plummeted. The old man froze in his tracks.

Two blurry figures appeared ahead—one in black, one in white, both holding iron chains.

They moved with eerie grace, chains rattling softly.

They looked just like...

"The Reapers!" the old man shrieked, peeing himself in terror. (In Western lore, these are the underworld’s soul collectors.)

He stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet.

The black-clad Reaper walked over, took the bottle, opened it, and released Michael’s soul. The white-clad Reaper chanted, and Michael gradually returned to normal.

The light from their chains glowed, wrapping Michael in a protective cocoon.

The scene was so surreal and terrifying that both the old man and I fainted.

I remember the world spinning, then everything went black.

When I came to, I was in the hospital. A doctor was stitching up my leg, and Michael was at my side. When I woke, he anxiously asked, "Are you okay? Does it hurt anywhere?"

He hovered over me, eyes wide with concern.

I shook my head, relieved to see him still there.

I reached for his hand, squeezing it tight.

The doctor finished and smiled: "Miss, your leg’s stitched up. Eight stitches—very lucky!"

He winked, trying to lighten the mood.

Uh...

I forced a smile, grateful for his kindness.

Doctor, let me say, thank you. With you around, every season is spring!

I made a mental note to send him a thank-you card.

Back home, Michael fussed over me, getting things, taking care of me. He looked troubled, but didn’t mention the night’s events. I couldn’t help but ask what happened.

He tucked me into bed, bringing me soup and extra blankets. I finally cornered him for answers.

He said the Reapers had saved him, and that he... might have to move on.

His voice was soft, almost apologetic. My heart dropped.

I didn’t care about the first part. All I heard was that he was leaving. My heart, which had just calmed, started aching again.

I bit my lip, fighting back tears.

For some reason, I felt a wave of sadness.

It washed over me, heavy and relentless.

Looking at Michael, my eyes went red. That’s when I realized—I’d fallen for a ghost.

I stared at him, heart pounding. He looked away, unsure.

Seeing me tear up, Michael awkwardly tried to comfort me: "Don’t... don’t cry. Does your leg hurt again?"

He offered me a tissue, but I shook my head.

I turned away, furious. This clueless man!

How could he not see what was right in front of him?

He had no idea why I was upset. Staring at my back, he was at a loss.

He hovered awkwardly, hands stuffed in his pockets.

After a while, I snapped, "Aren’t you going to move on? Why are you still here!"

I glared at him, daring him to answer.

He looked conflicted: "Do you want me to?"

His voice was barely a whisper.

"Of course! Didn’t you always want to?"

I tried to sound convincing, but my voice shook.

We stared at each other, both miserable.

The silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken words.

We were obviously hiding our feelings, but neither of us said anything more.

I wanted to reach for him, but couldn’t find the words.

Michael gently tucked my hair behind my ear: "Before I go, I have one last wish. Can you help me?"

His touch lingered, sending shivers down my spine.

I swallowed my emotions and nodded.

My throat was tight, but I managed a smile.

He hesitated, then said, "Close your eyes."

His voice was soft, almost trembling.

I did, lashes trembling. He didn’t speak, just kissed my forehead.

His lips were cool, but the gesture was warm. My heart raced.

It was just a light touch, but it sent ripples through both our hearts. As I was about to open my eyes, Michael covered them: "I’m leaving. Take care."

His voice cracked, and I felt tears spill down my cheeks.

After a long while, the room was silent. I opened my eyes—Michael was really gone.

The emptiness hit me like a tidal wave. I hugged my knees, sobbing.

And then, all the tears I’d been holding back came pouring out. I tried to wipe them away, but couldn’t.

My pillow was soaked. I buried my face, wishing I could turn back time.

I hugged myself, trying not to sob, but it was no use. The cries echoed through the room.

The apartment felt colder, lonelier than ever.