At their own funeral, the ghost hovered in the rafters, watching the sparse crowd below. The priest droned on about peace and eternity, but the ghost couldn’t stop staring at her.

She didn’t cry. She never cried, even when they’d said goodbye all those years ago. But she stayed after the others left, lingering by the casket, her hands gripping the edge like she might fall in.

“Why are you here?” the ghost whispered, though she couldn’t hear. “You let me go.”

Her head bowed, her lips moved soundlessly. The ghost leaned closer, and the breeze shifted. A single word slipped past, carried on nothing: sorry.

For the first time, the ghost felt something stir—a tether, thin as breath, holding them here. They swept closer, willing the breeze again, willing anything.

“I stayed,” they whispered into her hair. A shiver ran through her, but she didn’t move.

She lifted her head, staring into the rafters, her eyes wet now. “I’m sorry,” she said aloud, and the tether snapped, not from pain, but from the weightless, aching truth of it.

The ghost smiled. When they faded, she was still looking, her lips barely curving.

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