For five years, I’ve been stuck in this loop—watching my ex husband, waiting for something, anything, that might finally break him. That might make him feel. But it never happened. And yet, day after day, I’ve returned, perching on that damned willow tree, letting the obsession sink into my bones like rot.
So why now?
The thought lingers as I move, the pull guiding my steps forward. It drags me past familiar streets, past the white picket fences and picture-perfect houses of people I used to know.
The farther I go, the more the houses become sparser, giving way to looming buildings with bricks stained by age and city grime. The air grows thick and damp, clinging to my skin. The smell of rot isn’t just coming from the trash bins—it’s everywhere. It’s seeping out of the walls, curling out from alleyways, vaporizing from the ditches that seem to be at every corner.
I weave through this part of the city, catching glimpses of flickering neon signs glowing even in daylight. Laughter spills from the doorways of dingy bars—the kind that never really close, no matter the hour. Bricks, stone, and mortar lie scattered like discarded trash.
And just as I reach a building that looks strangely like an old warehouse, the pull tightens around my ribs like a noose.
The soul is somewhere here.
I slow my steps, scanning the area. By now, I’m somewhat of a regular in this part of town. It’s never a good place to die.
Some might argue there’s no such thing as a good place to die, but I’d disagree. After five years of doing this job, I’ve seen all kinds of deaths. There are the ones that happen in warmth, in the arms of someone who cares. The ones that come softly, like a whisper at the end of a long life. Quiet deaths. Peaceful. Even welcome.
And then there are deaths that happen here. Those that no one wants to witness.
Usually, they happen in nooks that reek of damp concrete and rotting garbage. They leave nothing behind but a stain on the pavement—unnoticed, unremembered. Tragic.
This death—this is one of those.
I step forward, letting the pull guide me to the exact spot. Pain lands on a rusted metal railing nearby, its claws scraping against the surface. Only I can hear it, but the faint metallic echo cutting through the empty street? It fits the mood.
I focus on the soul.
Where is it? It’s close. Too close. And yet…nothing.
I close my eyes.
Below.
Somewhere beneath all this concrete, a soul is waiting for me to collect it.
I glance up at Pain and point, informing it where I’m headed. The truth is, I usually try to reach my targets the normal way—like a human. I don’t take any shortcuts, nor use any tricks. I like to get to them by walking, pretending I’m stillsomethinginstead of just an abstract concept in a vaguely human shape. I like to imagine the legs I see are real, that the black clothes I wear aren’t just an illusion stitched together by whatever cosmic force keeps me tethered to existence. I like to pretend I still belong in this world.
Even though I know I don’t.
But sometimes, I have to stop pretending and exist in reality.
Like now.
I need to flicker out and slip through the concrete, down into whatever basement is hiding the soul.
I sigh.
I hate doing this. I’ve hated it since the day I got this job.
Flickering out isn’t what I once imagined teleportation to be when I was alive. It’s not seamless. It’s not smooth. It’s like yanking myself inside out. Forcing my way through a door that won’t fully open. Being torn apart and put back together—only never quite the same. It’s uncomfortable. It’s unnatural. It hurts.
And sometimes, it’s really freaking necessary.
I press my fingers together and take a deep breath—not because I need to, but because old habits die hard. Then, with a sharp tug of will, I let go.
The world bends. Warps. Shatters.
And then I’m down there.
