Chapter 14 - Chasing Ghosts (Amara’s POV)

"The dead leave echoes. In the wind, in the walls, in the hollow spaces where their laughter used to live. But echoes fade. And all that's left is silence."

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The apartment felt emptier after Aiden's goodbye.

Not quieter no, the silence had always been there, a heavy, suffocating thing. But emptier. Like the walls had exhaled, releasing the tension that had coiled in every corner since the accident. The frost was gone, the shadows receded, and the air no longer hummed with static.

It should've been a relief.

It wasn't.

I wandered from room to room, trailing my fingers over the places he used to linger. The couch where we'd binge-watched bad TV. The kitchen counter where he'd burned pancakes every Sunday. The bed where we'd loved and fought and loved again.

His absence was a presence, a ghost limb I couldn't stop reaching for.

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The first sign came a week later.

I was in the shower, the water scalding my skin, when I heard it a whisper, so faint I thought I'd imagined it.

"Amara."

I froze, my heart pounding. "Aiden?"

The steam curled around me, thick and suffocating. For a moment, I thought I saw his silhouette in the fogged-up mirror. But when I wiped the glass, there was nothing.

Just my reflection, hollow-eyed and haunted.

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The second sign was harder to dismiss.

I woke to the smell of coffee.

Not the cheap instant kind I'd been drinking since he died, but the rich, dark roast he used to make every morning. I followed the scent to the kitchen, my bare feet slapping against the cold tiles.

The coffee pot was on, steam rising from the carafe.

My hands shook as I poured a cup. It tasted like him bitter, with a hint of cinnamon.

"Aiden?" I called, my voice trembling.

The apartment stayed silent.

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The third sign broke me.

I was on the terrace, the city lights flickering below, when I felt it a hand on my shoulder. Cold, familiar.

I turned, my breath catching.

He wasn't there.

But the wind carried his voice, soft and broken.

"I'm sorry."

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I called Eleanor.

She arrived at midnight, her coat trailing the scent of incense and something darker. Her eyes swept the apartment, lingering on the frost-free windows, the unbroken glass.

"He's gone," she said, though it wasn't a question.

"Then why do I still feel him?"

She lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around her like a shroud. "Because you're not ready to let go."

"I am."

"Liar." She blew smoke in my face. "You're chasing ghosts, darling. And ghosts have a way of chasing back."

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The signs grew stronger.

A cold spot on the bed where he used to sleep. A flicker of movement in the corner of my eye. The faint hum of a song we'd danced to, playing on a radio that wasn't on.

I told myself it was grief. That my mind was playing tricks, conjuring him from the wreckage of my heart.

But deep down, I knew.

He wasn't gone.

Not completely.

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The shadow found me in the kitchen.

It was different from Aiden's darker, hungrier. It pooled in the corners, seeping across the floor like spilled ink.

"You miss him," it whispered, its voice a chorus of screams.

I backed against the counter, my hands gripping the edge. "Who are you?"

"A friend." It surged forward, tendrils of darkness lashing the air. "He's trapped. Between worlds. Between you."

"How do I help him?"

"Let him go."

"I did!"

"Liar." It coiled around my ankles, cold and suffocating. "You're holding on. And it's killing him."

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I found the ring in the coffee tin, the sapphire dull beneath a layer of dust.

"Aiden," I whispered, clutching it to my chest. "What do you want from me?"

The wind howled, rattling the windows.

"Let me go."

His voice was faint, fractured, but it was his.

"I can't."

"You must."

Tears streamed down my face. "I don't know how."

"Say goodbye."

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I wrote the letter at dawn.

It wasn't long just a few lines, scrawled on the back of an old receipt. But it was enough.

Dear Aiden,

I love you. I always will. But I can't keep chasing ghosts. I can't keep living in the past. You deserve peace. And so do I.

Goodbye, my always.

Amara

I folded the paper, tucking it into the coffee tin with the ring. Then I carried it to the terrace, the city waking below.

The wind carried his voice one last time.

"Thank you."

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"The hardest part of love isn't the letting go. It's the living after. The waking up each day, knowing they're gone, and choosing to keep breathing anyway."