Chapter 1The Other Her

I’ve seen ghosts since I was a kid. I couldn't speak to them, just watch.

On our fifth wedding anniversary, I cooked a feast, waiting for Lyra to come home. When I looked up, I saw her ghost.

She was curled up in the living room corner, her face a pale, ashen grey, staring intently at me.

A chill like ice water drenched me. My hand trembled as I reached for my phone, wanting to call her.

Before I could dial, the front door opened.

Lyra walked in, embracing me as gently as always. "Sorry, honey, I worked late."

As she held me, I heard her familiar heartbeat, warm and strong.

I closed my eyes, telling myself: She’s alive. But when I opened them, the spirit in the corner was still there.

My heart sank, a slow, heavy drop.

If Lyra was truly gone, then who was this person wearing her skin, holding me?

* * *

I stared hard at Lyra’s face.

I’d looked at that face for twenty years.

From elementary school through high school, college to marriage, she’d been by my side every single day.

Now, I was seeing a ghost, identical to her, huddled in the corner.

I trembled all over, unable to make a sound for a long moment.

“Antonio, what’s wrong?” She walked over, her hand gently touching my forehead. “Why are you sweating so much? Are you running a fever?”

Her eyes were full of concern, her warm palm resting on my skin.

I flinched, stepping back abruptly. The sudden movement knocked over the water glass on the table.

Crash!

Water spilled everywhere. She froze, her hand suspended in mid-air, looking at me with a bewildered, almost hurt expression.

“Antonio? What’s going on?”

I forced down the rising panic in my chest.

If the ghost in the corner was the real her, then who was this woman in front of me?

I couldn't alert her.

I took a deep breath, managing to pull a strained smile onto my face.

“It’s nothing,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Come on, let’s eat. The food’s getting cold.”

With that, I sat down and served myself a spare rib.

She poured me a bowl of soup and then pulled a bottle of red wine from the liquor cabinet. “I’m late today, so I’ll down three glasses as an apology.”

I watched the dark red liquid in the glass, then spoke, feigning indifference:

“Do you remember that time in high school when you snuck some of your dad’s wine?” I watched her face intently.

She paused, then chuckled. “How could I forget? You insisted on trying it, and I couldn't stop you. You ended up getting completely wasted after two glasses.”

“And then?” My grip on the chopsticks tightened, a tremor running through me.

“Then you threw up all over me. I took you home, and your mom smelled the booze, thought I’d gotten you drunk, and gave me an earful,” she shook her head. “I didn’t dare say you’d wanted to drink it yourself, so I just took the blame.”

My heart clenched. This was a secret only the two of us knew.

“What were you wearing that day?” I pressed on.

“A white shirt, which you completely ruined. Took ages to wash out,” she smiled, ruffling my hair. “Why the sudden trip down memory lane?”

I lowered my gaze, not answering. She even remembered that detail.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the ghost in the corner still watching me, and my unease spiked again.

No, it wasn't enough.

I cleared my throat, shifting my gaze back to her, and spoke with a hint of awkwardness. “Today… Dad called. He said he was craving my beggar’s chicken.”

She served me another rib. “Alright, I’ll make it tomorrow and take it to him.”

“You’ll make it?” I looked up at her.

She laughed. “Haven’t I always? You almost burned down the kitchen trying to impress my dad back then. I ended up learning to make it, and even got a few burns on my hands.”

“The first time I made it, you mistook salt for sugar. You tasted it, your whole face crumpled up like a prune, but you still insisted it was delicious. I remember thinking, this guy is adorable.”

“You even told my dad it was your recipe,” she shook her head. “He bragged about your cooking to everyone, and I never had the heart to expose you.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got this,” she patted my hand.

I didn't say anything more. All the details matched up, yet the ghost was still there.

Was I truly losing my mind?

No, that was impossible. I'd been born with the Sight; I'd never been wrong about this before.

After dinner, she tied on an apron and went into the kitchen.

I followed, leaning against the doorframe, watching her closely.

Her movements as she prepped the chicken, the way she rubbed in the seasonings, even the sprinkle of salt – it was all exactly as I remembered.

The familiar aroma wafted from the kitchen.

She turned and smiled at me. “Go sit down. It’ll be ready soon.”

I didn't move.

When the beggar’s chicken was placed on the table, I took a bite. The taste was spot on.

“Is it good?” She leaned in, her eyes sparkling as she watched me.

I nodded. “Yeah, it’s just how I remember it.”

She smiled, packed the chicken, and put it in the fridge.

Then she took my hand. “Alright, it’s been a long day. Let’s go get some rest.”

I leaned against her, feeling her warmth through my clothes, her steady breathing brushing my ear.

“Okay.”

I closed my eyes. Whether you’re human or ghost, I’m going to find the truth.