Chapter 5: Shadows Between Worlds

Her words faded as the door creaked open. Mason walked in, wearing a black coat, the night wind following him from outside. His eyes were so dark and deep—when he looked at people, it was like a wolf sizing up its prey, enough to make anyone shiver.

He stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the porch light. The air seemed to crackle around him, tension radiating from every line of his body. He looked tired, older somehow, but still every bit the man I loved. When his gaze landed on Savannah, she straightened, nerves flickering across her face. My breath caught.

"What were you just saying?" Mason suddenly asked.

His voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. Savannah froze, her eyes wide. For a moment, I almost thought he’d heard everything—but then she relaxed, remembering the system kept their secrets safe. The tension in the room was palpable.

Savannah panicked for a second, then realized she’d been talking to the system in her mind—no one else could hear. She went over to him, putting on a sweet, affectionate tone:

She slipped into her practiced smile, wrapping her arms around his. Her voice was syrupy, almost cloying. I watched the way Mason’s jaw tightened, wondered if he noticed the change. The air between them felt brittle.

"Nothing—I was just watching TV. It was the show."

She waved a hand at the muted television, feigning innocence. Mason didn’t press, just nodded and turned away. I saw the flicker of suspicion in his eyes, the way he studied her like he was searching for something just out of reach. He seemed distant.

Mason made a noncommittal sound and didn’t press further. He opened the bag he was carrying.

He set the bag on the counter, the scent of warm pastry filling the room. The familiarity of it hit me all at once, memories tumbling over each other. I drifted closer, drawn by the comfort of old rituals. My heart fluttered.

"Your favorite apple turnovers—fresh from the bakery."

His voice was softer now, almost hopeful. He held out the bag, waiting for her reaction. I remembered all the times he’d brought me those turnovers, the way he’d try to cheer me up after a bad day. It was his way of saying sorry, of making things right. I could almost taste the sweetness.

Savannah’s happy expression froze, but she forced a smile.

She took the bag, her smile brittle. I saw the flicker of annoyance in her eyes, quickly masked by a practiced sweetness. She set the bag aside, barely glancing at it. Her disinterest was obvious.

"Mason, you must be mistaken. I don’t like apple turnovers."

Her tone was light, but there was an edge to it. Mason’s brow furrowed, confusion clouding his features. He glanced at the bag, then back at her, searching for something he couldn’t quite name. I felt a pang of sadness.

"Really? I could’ve sworn we first met at that bakery over them."

He sounded uncertain, almost lost. I remembered that day so clearly—the way he’d stumbled over his words, the way our hands brushed as we reached for the same pastry. It was the beginning of everything. The memory stung.

Mason was always cold and distant. Savannah had gotten close to him by pretending to bump into him at a bakery, acting like she loved apple turnovers too. But she hadn’t cared—after all, the system had scripted the whole encounter.

I watched the memory play out in Mason’s eyes, the flicker of doubt. He was piecing things together, slowly but surely. I wondered if he’d ever see the truth behind Savannah’s mask. I hoped he would.

Mason said, "Don’t be mad at me for coming home late. If you don’t want them, that’s fine."

He tried to sound casual, but I heard the disappointment in his voice. He set the bag on the counter, his shoulders slumping just a little. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. I wanted to comfort him.

I drifted over to Mason’s side. Since he couldn’t see me, I leaned in close to the apple turnovers. I didn’t know if Savannah liked them—but I loved them. When I was dating Mason, every time we fought, he’d buy a box of apple turnovers. He was tall and intimidating, so that pale yellow bag always looked so out of place in his hands. It always made me laugh.

I hovered by his side, close enough to smell the cinnamon and sugar. I remembered the way Mason would sheepishly hand me the bag, his cheeks flushed. He’d mumble an apology, and I’d always forgive him—how could I not? The memory was sweet and sharp.

"Ellie, will you forgive this stubborn Mason today? If not, I’ll come back and ask again tomorrow."

His words echoed in my memory, warm and familiar. I smiled, just a little, remembering how persistent he could be. He never gave up, not when it came to us. That memory was a lifeline.

After I died, he used his rough fingers to pick up a paintbrush and draw them for me, then burn the drawings as offerings. But ever since Savannah showed up, I hadn’t received any more. Mason’s hand never picked up the brush again, and my apple turnovers were given to someone else.

I watched him at his desk, hunched over a sketchbook, the pages filled with delicate drawings of pastries and flowers. He’d burn them in the backyard, the smoke curling up to the sky. It was his way of reaching out to me, of keeping our connection alive. But now, the sketchbook was closed, gathering dust on the shelf. The absence was painful.

Suddenly, I felt a surge of anger and said, "Apple turnovers are the worst thing in the world. I don’t like them at all."

The words burst out of me, sharp and bitter. I didn’t mean it—not really—but the jealousy flared, hot and wild. I wanted to lash out, to make someone hurt the way I hurt. My voice shook with emotion.

Then, almost out of spite, I swung my hand at Mason’s shoulder. But just then, Mason turned his head, and my palm landed right on his face.

For a split second, I felt something—pressure, warmth. Mason’s eyes widened, his breath hitching. It was as if, for one heartbeat, the veil between worlds had thinned. I stared at him, shocked, wondering if he could really see me. My heart raced.

He shouldn’t have been able to hear me, shouldn’t have felt my touch. But his eyelashes trembled, and suddenly he looked straight at me.

His gaze was piercing, searching. I held my breath, afraid to move. Did he know I was there? Did he sense me, hovering just out of reach? I wanted to believe he did.

"Why don’t you like them anymore? Are you still mad?"

His voice was soft, vulnerable. It was the same tone he used when he was afraid of losing me, when he needed reassurance. I wanted to answer, to tell him everything, but the words caught in my throat. The moment felt fragile.

Our eyes met, and I froze. For a moment, I almost thought Mason could see me. But then Savannah’s voice came from behind:

She stepped into the room, her voice bright and cheerful. Mason blinked, the connection broken. I felt myself fade, the moment slipping through my fingers like sand. I wanted to scream.

"Mason, I’m not mad. I just ate too much at dinner, so I can’t eat anymore..."

She smiled, wrapping her arms around his waist. Mason nodded, distracted, his eyes lingering on the empty space where I stood. I watched him, longing for one last touch, one last word. The ache was almost unbearable.

So he was talking to Savannah. My heart dropped, and I couldn’t help but feel a little sad.

The realization hit me like a punch. I was just a shadow now, a memory fading into the background. Mason had moved on, and I was left behind, clinging to the past. The emptiness was sharp.

The system reminded Savannah, "Host, you’re allergic to apples. You’ve made your point, so just avoid turnovers from now on. Make up an excuse."

The voice was cold, practical. Savannah nodded, barely listening. I watched her, resentment simmering just beneath the surface. She was playing a part, following a script, while I was left to haunt the sidelines. The unfairness burned.

Savannah answered absentmindedly.

She fiddled with her phone, scrolling through messages. Mason watched her, his expression unreadable. I wondered if he ever saw the cracks in her facade, the way she slipped in and out of character. I hoped he did.