I don’t look back.
I reach the stairwell at the end of the corridor, taking the steps two at a time. My legs feel heavier, like I’m moving through a pool of Jell-O, but whatever supernatural bullshit they pulled on me doesn’t matter right now. What matters is getting out.
At the top of the stairs, I push through the door and emerge into a back alley. The day is still young, and the stench of rotten cabbage and smoke is still in the air. Nothing changed here.
I turn around and peer into the corridor.
They’re letting me leave.
Huh.
I glance up at Pain. “It doesn't matter why, does it?”
The raven blinks. I take it as a yes, or maybe as an “I’m a bird, why are you asking me existential questions?” Either way, I move on.
Maybe one of their spells misfired. Maybe binding a Grim Reaper turned out to be more complicated than they expected. Or maybe they just suck at it. Who knows? It might not sit right with me, but I’m not about to turn around and ask them to give it another go.
I need to take this miraculous fuck-up and get back to my routine. What would I even stick around for? A tutorial on binding spirits featuring three men who look like they get hard reading demonic fine print? No, thanks.
And since there's no pull yanking me toward my Reaper duties, I do what I always do—I go back to watching my Gran’s house and spying on my ex like a completely normal, well-adjusted dead woman.
It takes me about thirty minutes to stop in front of the white picket fence and peer through it. The sensation is a bit different than before—it tickles more. But I brush it off and climb up the willow tree.
To my surprise, my grave below looks almost exactly the same as I left it. The only difference is a rectangular cut in the grass, almost like Nathaniel made a very precise incision even into the earth when he dug me up. The lawn here is natural, with roots in the ground and no fake grass. That's what makes it even more astounding.
I don't know how he did it, but no one would be able to tell that the grave had been touched at all. I doubt that with the way my ex-husband and Jessica obsess over this tree, either of them will notice anything.
But one thing is for sure. My bones are gone from here. I can feel it.
I stifle the weird surge of anger rising inside me and sit on my usual spot. It’s getting close to lunchtime, so even though I feel all sorts of wrong deep down, watchingthemshould help me feel better.
Usually, he and Jessica eat at home. She pulls one of those premade salads from the fridge, dumps some dressing on it, and eats while scrolling through her phone. He, on the other hand, always makes something for himself—something warm, something that actually smells like food.
Today is no different.
Through the window, I see him standing by the stove, stirring something in a pot. Jessica is at the dining table, her free hand picking at the lettuce as she laughs at something on her phone.
Pain lands on the branch beside me. It cocks its head, watching me closely.
I’m not sure what it is that I expect to feel. Normally, watching them gives me some clarity—it reminds me of who I was, what I lost, and what I still need to do. But now, something feels...off. It’s not just the lingering wrongness I feel in my limbs or the heaviness in my movements. It’s more than that.
Jessica tilts her head, glances at him, and motions for him to come see whatever she’s looking at. He turns, steps away from the stove, and leans in over her shoulder. He barely even smiles. He never does. But he always comes over to see whatever she wants to show him anyway.
I narrow my eyes.
Is he happier with her than he was with me? Doesn't look like it. He seems just as cold a bastard as he always was with me. He’s just better at hiding it now. I remember what it was like, sitting in the chair she’s in now.
I used to be the one calling him over, preparing food for both of us—the one whose presence in his life was a given. He'd always criticize it but eat it anyway. Then he'd load the dishesinto the dishwasher, eager to be the one to do it, insisting he was the only one who knew how to arrange them so they were washed just right. And then, after a quick peck on my cheek, he'd go back to work.
Something sharp and bitter rises up in my throat.
Huh? What is that? I clamp my mouth shut before it can escape.
Pain pecks the wood twice, craning its little neck, looking at me like I've completely lost my mind.
“What?” I ask it, furrowing my brows. But I know exactly what it is don't I?
I was just about to... laugh. Not one of those lights, breezy laughs I hear Jessica make from time to time. No, I wanted to laugh because of how unfair all of this is.
