13

I doubt it. I remember few of the lessons of my life, but I feel sure those lessons never taught me that the afterlife was like this.

Little by little, you become more accustomed to your capabilities, your limits. You are, of course, utterly undetectable to those around you. You can be neither seen nor heard—not by people, not by animals. You can pass through any wall, any barrier, without difficulty. You do not breathe. You can remain within a sufficiently thick wall or object indefinitely—though, given that light cannot pass into such objects, you do so in utter darkness. Boredom can become a factor. You do not hunger. You do not thirst.

You cannot fly or float or levitate. You must walk, like anybody else. And this presents a curiosity: you are immaterial, without any sense of touch, and yet you can climb a staircase, or ride in an elevator, without difficulty. Nor is this a conscious effort; you attribute it to some unconscious action or some application of ghostly physics that you're unaware of. If you leap up into the air, gravity will pull you down to the ground. And you will pass into the ground, but only shallowly and briefly. With some difficulty, you can pass through a thin floor or platform beneath you, but you soon learn that anything thicker than an inch or so impedes this vertical passage. You find you can travel in cars and on trains easily enough, though in such close confines, other travelers frequently pass through you.

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