Chapter 3: The Living and the Dead Collide

She turned suddenly, the hope in her eyes vanishing the instant she saw me.

It was as if someone had hit a switch—hope gone, terror taking its place.

Her mouth dropped open, eyes wide as dinner plates. The world shrank to just the two of us, alone among the graves.

She stumbled back, falling to the ground, staring at me in fright.

Her backpack thudded on the grass, colored pencils and a crumpled notebook spilling out. She didn’t even notice.

Her voice trembled.

"You... who are you? You... don’t come any closer... mom... mom..."

She tried to crawl away, sneakers scraping in the mud, breathing so quick it was almost a sob.

Honestly, I was scared too.

What would I even say if I stepped out? Would she scream, or just look right through me like everyone else had for a hundred years?

After appearing, I looked just as I did when I died.

A sight straight out of a horror movie—a long knife through my chest, blood soaking the orange of my prison jumpsuit. My hair was matted, my face smudged with grime, my eyes gouged out, my ears gone.

The jumpsuit clung to me in tatters. Sometimes, I wondered if the living saw me as I saw myself, or if they just felt the cold chill of something unnatural passing by.

I didn’t look like a hero or a mother—just a ghost with wounds that never healed.

I doubted the Reaper’s words.

He’d said I was a person of great merit, honored after death. But what good person ends up tortured like this before dying?

Every time I replayed my death, I wondered what I’d done to deserve it. Was goodness not enough in this world?

Seeing the little girl shaking, I stopped approaching her.

I crouched down on the grave mound, trying to make myself less frightening. I didn’t want to be her nightmare.

"Hey, it’s okay. I’m not here to hurt you. But… this isn’t your mom’s grave. I’m sorry. This is my grave. And thank you for the flowers and snacks, but don’t bring them anymore. I’m about to move on. Before, I could help your mom enjoy them, but soon it’ll just go to waste."

I kept my voice soft, hoping she’d hear the kindness under the horror.

But the little girl, scared as a rabbit, suddenly threw herself in front of me, looking up with a panicked little face.

"My mom isn’t buried here? No... that can’t be... I saw with my own eyes her casket being buried..."

Her eyes filled with tears, words tumbling out fast. The truth hung between us like a storm cloud.

The casket was buried.

But it was empty. The adults all lied to her, as adults do, thinking it would spare her pain. But kids always know when something’s off.

To prove it, I dug up my own grave, revealing her mom’s casket.

I moved through the soil like air, uncovering the polished wood, prying the lid with ghostly hands. The sound echoed, sharp and final.

"See for yourself, it’s empty. I’ve been dead for at least a hundred years; I wouldn’t bother lying to a little girl like you."

I lied without flinching—God knows how long I’ve been dead.

I watched her lean over the open coffin, hands trembling, tears streaming. It broke me all over again.

She staggered, staring at the empty casket.

"Mom... mom... where is my mom... where is my mom..." she whimpered, then burst into sobs, crying out in grief.

Her cries echoed through the graveyard. Somewhere, a blue jay called, as if trying to answer her.

Over and over she called, "Mom, where are you?"

She clung to the casket, her body wracked with shudders. I wanted to reach out, but my touch would be colder than comfort.

She curled up into a ball, staring blankly at the emptiness.

The wind picked up, rustling her hair. For a moment, she looked impossibly small—a child lost in a world too cruel for her.

Time seemed to stand still. Her thin back looked so pitiful.

Even the sky seemed to pause, clouds hanging low, waiting to weep.

I wished I could reach out, tuck her hair behind her ear, say something a real mom would say. But all I had were words, and not nearly enough of them. "Your mom’s body may be gone, but you still remember her. Look, my bones are still here, but for a century you’re the first to pay respects to me... Thinking of it that way, isn’t your mom luckier? Does that make you feel a little better...?"

Unexpectedly, she knelt before me.

There was no more fear in her eyes; she looked at me like I was some kind of angel.

She looked up at me, eyes shining, and pressed her hands together like she was praying for a miracle, then said, "You’ve been dead for a century, your powers must be great, you must be some kind of spirit. Could you help me find my mom? As her daughter, I just want her to rest in peace."

Afraid I wouldn’t agree, she hurried to add, "From now on I’ll come every three days to pay respects, light candles, and bring you snacks."

She tried to sweeten the deal, as if bargaining at a neighborhood yard sale.

She said her mom’s name was Linda Lee.

The name felt heavy on my tongue, echoing back through time. Linda Lee—like a melody you half remember.

Same last name as me—a bit of fate.

Maybe that’s why our stories crossed. Maybe it was more than coincidence.

Her mom died at thirty-two, from Washington, D.C.

Thirty-two—too young. My heart clenched, the details falling into place like a jigsaw puzzle.

I spread the word; all the ghosts around D.C. and nearby cities were looking for a thirty-two-year-old female ghost named Linda Lee.

I called in favors from spirits who haunted the National Mall, the Vietnam Memorial, the silent halls of old government buildings. I waited, restless.

But after three days and nights, no one had seen her.

No trace—not in the alleys, not among the other lost souls. It was like she’d vanished entirely.

When the little girl came again, she brought two big baskets of snacks and flowers.

She carried them in both arms, face set with determination. Treats spilled over—Oreos, Twizzlers, sunflower seeds, a bottle of grape Fanta.

She looked at me hopefully, waiting for word about her mom.

Her gaze was trusting, expectant. I hated the disappointment I was about to give her.

I said awkwardly, "Wait a few more days."

She smiled and said, "Waiting a few more days is no problem. These are the things I brought you."

She set the baskets down like a little hostess. “Take whatever you want. I’ll bring more next time, I promise.”

She said shyly, "Before, I always brought what my mom liked for you. Now I brought a few more things—see what you like? Next time I’ll bring more."

She watched my reaction with anxious eyes, as if afraid I’d disapprove.

Actually, my tastes are very similar to her mom’s.

I didn’t tell her, but I’d always preferred the sour candies and the chocolate-covered pretzels, just like Linda apparently had.

Everything her mom liked, I liked too.

We would have gotten along, I thought. Maybe we did, once upon a time.

She added, "You’re a good ghost. Only you are willing to help me... thank you."

Her gratitude was so sincere it made me ache. I wondered if anyone alive had ever thanked me like that.

As she spoke, she pressed her hands together in thanks several times.

After the little girl left, I decided to go myself.

No more waiting, no more sending others. It was time to see what the living could not.