CH 11 The Ghost History

As Saki finished recounting her version of the past, I glanced at Aya, who had been silent the entire time, her gaze lost somewhere far away. The stillness in her was unsettling, as if the weight of Saki’s words had anchored her to a distant place in her mind. I looked back at Saki, her face streaked with tears, and felt the thick tension between us.

"I... I don't know what to say," I finally muttered. Saki’s sobs grew softer, but the regret in her eyes was unmistakable. She sat there, trembling, her shoulders hunched over as if the guilt was pressing down on her.

"I... I wish I didn’t say those things to her," Saki stammered, her voice breaking. "I wish I had stayed by her side, instead of pushing her away. I was wrong, and I never got to apologize. Back then, I was so blind, so obsessed with a stupid crush, that I threw my best friend aside for nothing." She covered her face with her hands, her sobs muffled but full of pain.

I didn’t know what to do or how to comfort her. The air around us felt heavy, as if the years of unresolved guilt and sorrow had materialized into a suffocating fog. I could feel the gravity of everything that had been left unsaid between them—friendship, betrayal, missed chances— and it weighed on us like an invisible storm.

Aya still hadn’t said a word. Her silence was deafening, and it made the moment all the more unbearable. I could see her chest rise and fall slowly, her expression unreadable, as if she were processing everything on a level beyond us.

The leaves of the old tree rustled in the wind, casting shifting shadows on the ground around us. The very tree where they had once buried their childhood promises, now a silent witness to their shared grief.

Saki wiped her tears, her hands shaking. "Mika... I’m so sorry," she choked out, even though she didn’t know Mika was here. "I was a terrible friend."

The weight of her words hung in the air, and I could feel the emotions swirling around us—guilt, regret, and the longing for forgiveness. Saki's voice cracked as she continued, oblivious to the fact that Mika—now Aya—was right beside us. "I should have been there for you, through everything. I should have trusted you. I never meant for things to end the way they did. I was selfish... blind..."

I glanced at Aya, whose face remained unreadable. She had been so quiet, her gaze fixed on the ground. She had heard every word, but Saki was speaking to a ghost—her ghost, unaware of the truth. Aya stayed motionless, as if the memories had anchored her to the spot, her emotions swirling beneath the surface.

I could see the pain in Saki’s eyes, the way her body trembled with regret, but I couldn’t bring myself to break the moment. This wasn’t my place. It was between them, a thread from the past tying them together in a way I could never fully grasp.

Aya finally stirred, her voice soft but steady. "You didn’t know," she said quietly. But she wasn’t

speaking to the Saki beside us. She was speaking to the memory of a friend lost to time.

Aya stood and walked in front of Saki, her presence like a quiet breeze. Saki, unaware, kept her tear-filled gaze fixed on the ground, oblivious to the figure standing before her. Aya, who had once been her closest friend, now stood only inches away, but they were worlds apart—one bound by the living, the other by the past.

"You don’t have to apologize," Aya said softly, her voice gentle but resolute, echoing in a space that Saki could not perceive. "We were kids, Saki. We all made mistakes. And... it’s not your fault." Her words carried a sense of peace, as if Aya herself had long accepted the pain of the past.

Saki, still weeping, had no idea of Aya’s presence, her shoulders trembling as she whispered into the quiet air, "I just wish I could tell her. I wish she knew how much I missed her…"

Aya knelt down in front of Saki, her expression softening. "I know, Saki. I’ve always known."

The silence stretched between them, like a thread that could never quite be grasped, and yet

Aya’s words lingered in the air—unheard by Saki, but somehow reaching her heart.

I watched, my throat tight, knowing that Saki couldn’t hear Aya, couldn’t feel her presence. And yet, it felt like Aya’s words were for both of them, a quiet absolution of the past that had once tied them together so deeply.

Aya reached out as if to touch Saki, but stopped just shy of making contact, her hand hovering in the air before she slowly pulled it back. "It’s okay," Aya whispered. "You don’t have to carry this guilt anymore."

Even though Saki couldn’t hear, it seemed that some part of her felt the shift, her sobs slowing, her breathing steadying. There was something in the air, an invisible connection between them—one that words couldn’t explain but was undeniably present.

Aya stepped back, her eyes lingering on Saki for a moment longer before she turned to me, her

expression bittersweet. "It’s time to move forward."

Moments passed in heavy silence. Aya walked to the front of the tree, her eyes fixed on its sturdy trunk, lost in her thoughts. The sun filtered through the leaves, casting soft, shifting shadows around her.

I glanced at Saki, who was still wiping her tears, the weight of regret hanging between us. I took a deep breath, breaking the quiet.

"Saki," I began, my voice low. "Do you have any idea where Mika is now?"

Saki's eyes grew distant as she stared at the ground, her hands gripping the edge of the bench. "No..." she said softly, shaking her head. "After the accident, I heard she was in a coma. I searched everywhere—looked for her, her family, anything... but they were just gone. No records, no traces, nothing. It was like they disappeared." Her voice wavered, filled with the same helplessness she must have felt back then.

I glanced over at Aya, who was standing still in front of the tree, her back to us. The sight of her staring at the place where they had buried their time capsule felt hauntingly symbolic, as if that spot was a marker for everything she’d lost.

Saki sighed. "I’ve wondered for so long what happened to her. I never got the chance to apologize... or even say goodbye." Her voice broke again, and she quickly covered her mouth with her hand, trying to hold back another sob.

My gaze shifted between Saki and Aya, knowing that even though Saki couldn't see or hear her, the person she was so desperately searching for was right here. But for how long?

Aya turned slowly, her eyes reflecting a deep sadness. She gave me a knowing look—one that spoke of understanding, even acceptance. But behind that acceptance was a lingering uncertainty, the same fear that had been gnawing at me since the mysterious figure had appeared days ago.

I could see Aya's lips moving, though Saki couldn't hear her. "I’m still here, Saki... just not in the

way you think."

A moment of silence enveloped us, each of us wrapped in our own thoughts and emotions. The weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future hung heavily in the air.

"Thank you for telling me this, Saki," I said, my voice filled with gratitude and resolve.

Saki looked up, her eyes still wet with tears. "No... It’s for my own satisfaction. I’ve been haunted by this for ages. I needed to tell you because it’s been eating at me," she admitted, her voice trembling as she continued to wipe her tears away. "What are you going to do now?" she asked, her voice tinged with a mix of hope and resignation.

"Well," I replied, taking a deep breath, "I guess I should start by finding her."

Saki's face showed a flicker of hope, though it was quickly replaced by a look of doubt. "I did try

to find her. But there were no more clues, no leads. It’s been impossible."

"That’s all the more reason for me to try," I said firmly. Determination solidified in my chest. "If there’s even the slightest chance of finding her, I have to take it. Mika deserves that much."

Saki nodded slowly, her expression a mix of sadness and tentative hope. "If anyone can do it,

it’s you. I wish you all the luck in the world."

“I guess I’d head out now,” Saki said, rising from her seat.

I stood up as well. “Thank you again, Saki,” I said, my voice tinged with gratitude.

I watched her silhouette diminish as she walked away, her figure gradually blending with the crowd.

Aya’s voice, though quiet, cut through the silence. “I... I remember it all now,” she said, turning to face me. “The last thing I saw was when I was hit by a car.”

She told me all she remembers.

Her words struck me like a physical blow. The weight of the revelation pressed down on me, causing my chest to tighten with a mix of fear and regret. My mind raced, piecing together the fragments of our past with a dreadful clarity. The realization hit me like a tidal wave—Aya could very well be the person involved in that accident.

My heart sank, and a suffocating wave of guilt crashed over me. I was overwhelmed by the crushing burden of “what ifs.” If I hadn’t been involved in that accident, if I had just been more cautious, perhaps Aya wouldn’t have been hurt. Maybe she would still be alive today. The thought gnawed at me, a relentless echo of remorse. I could barely breathe, consumed by the heavy responsibility I felt for her suffering.

I looked at Aya, my vision blurring with tears. The gravity of my actions seemed almost too much to bear. The idea that my carelessness might have caused her pain and led to her current state of being was a relentless torment. The guilt felt like a physical weight, anchoring me to the spot, unable to escape the reality that I was part of the reason Aya’s life had taken such a tragic turn. The enormity of my role in her suffering left me stunned. The pain and regret were almost unbearable.

“I... I... I’m sorry, Aya,” I said, my voice cracking with remorse. “I didn’t know. I had no idea it was you.”

I clenched my fists, my gaze fixed on the ground as Aya walked towards me. I braced myself for anything—if she was angry or if she hated me now, I was ready to accept it.

But then, I felt a gentle touch on my cheek. I looked up to meet her eyes, and in that moment, her expression was one of calm understanding.

“No,” Aya said softly, her voice tender. “It’s not your fault. You’re not behind the wheel, aren’t you? If anything, I’m grateful to you. You’ve allowed me to experience things I never did when I was alive. You made me feel that I had a purpose.”

A lump formed in my throat. “I... I thought you hated me. If I hadn’t been in that car, maybe you’d still be alive,” I said, struggling to hold back my tears.

“No,” she replied gently, shaking her head. “Who knows? Maybe I’d still be a ghost for other reasons. But you’ve been with me even when no one else was. You appreciated me for who I am. I think it’s more fulfilling being a ghost with you than being alive. I felt free when I was with you.”

Her smile was a beacon of light in the darkness, offering comfort and hope despite the heaviness of our shared past.

“I’ve gotta favor to ask you,” Aya’s voice was soft, but there was a certain weight behind her

words.

“Yeah?” I replied weakly, still reeling from the flood of emotions, my voice barely audible. I wasn’t sure what she would ask of me, but I braced myself, expecting something painful— maybe even a final goodbye.

“Let’s... Let’s just do what we normally do,” she said, her eyes locking onto mine. Her gaze wasn’t accusing or filled with sadness, but rather a kind of warmth and acceptance that I hadn’t expected. “Until the end.”

Her words hung in the air, simple yet filled with meaning. I felt a lump in my throat, my heart squeezing painfully as I tried to process what she was saying. She didn’t want anything more from me—no answers, no apologies, no grand gestures. All she wanted was for us to continue like we had been, as if nothing had changed. As if the weight of her past, and my guilt, could somehow be put aside.

I... I didn’t know what to say. I just stared at her, feeling a strange mix of relief and sorrow well up inside me. I had been expecting something far more difficult, something I wasn’t sure I could handle—but this, this I could do. I could keep being with her, keep sharing those moments, no matter how small, no matter how fleeting.

“I...” My voice cracked, and I quickly looked down, blinking away the tears threatening to spill over. “I just...”

I couldn’t finish the sentence. My emotions were a tangled mess. Relief washed over me, but so did a deep sadness, knowing that these days were numbered. But for her sake, I forced a smile, even though my heart felt heavy.

“I just said... yeah,” I finally managed to get out, my voice barely more than a whisper. I looked up at her again, trying to meet her smile, but all I could feel was a deep ache.

Aya didn’t need words. She smiled at me, a gentle smile that seemed to ease the tension in the air. It wasn’t one of pity, but one of understanding. Maybe she had already forgiven me long before I even realized what I had done. Maybe, to her, the past didn’t matter as much as these final moments we still had left.

"Thank you," she whispered, and for a moment, the world felt peaceful, even if just for that one fleeting second.

Days passed, and I did my best to carry on with life, pretending that nothing had changed. We went to work, returned home, repeated the routine like clockwork, but there was a dull ache beneath the surface. It wasn’t just the weight of the memories or the looming uncertainty of what would come next with Aya—it was the struggle of trying to act like everything was normal when deep down, I knew it wasn’t.

Still, I tried. I threw myself into work at the convenience store, stocking shelves, ringing up customers, and going through the motions. But every now and then, in the quiet moments between tasks, my mind would drift back to Aya. To the weight of her memories. To the guilt I carried, even if she said it wasn’t my fault.

When I wasn’t working, Aya and I would go out. We visited malls, wandered through shops, sometimes stopping to look at the little trinkets on display. It felt surreal—like we were two ordinary people living ordinary lives, yet there was always the unspoken truth lingering between us.

Aya, too, was trying her best to be normal. She’d smile and laugh, pointing at things in store windows that caught her interest, her eyes lighting up as if nothing had ever happened. We’d grab food at the food court, and she’d sit across from me, her hands resting lightly on the table as she watched people pass by. It was strange—watching her, knowing that she was here but also not. Sometimes I would catch her staring off into the distance, her smile fading as if she, too, was lost in her own thoughts.

“Look at this,” she’d say, pointing at something—maybe a shirt, a piece of jewelry, or a new

game at one of the shops. She’d make comments about what she liked, her tastes oddly similar to what they had been when she was alive. We’d joke around, and for a little while, it felt like things were truly normal, like we were just two friends out shopping, like nothing was wrong.

But there were always moments when the facade cracked.

Sometimes, I’d notice Aya’s expression slip—a flicker of sadness or longing in her eyes, quickly hidden behind her usual cheerful demeanor. She never said anything about it, but I knew what it meant. She was trying to hold on to these moments just as much as I was. Trying to be "normal," to experience the things she never got to fully enjoy in life, even though both of us knew her time was running out.

At times, I found myself wondering if she was savoring these outings because she knew they would end soon. That thought gnawed at me, making it harder to maintain the illusion of

normalcy. But still, I didn’t dare bring it up. We had agreed to continue as we were—to just "do what we normally do." And so, I forced a smile and played along, even when my heart ached.

At the end of the day, when we returned to my apartment, there was always a quietness between us. Aya would sit by the window, staring out at the city lights, while I tried to busy myself with something—reading, cleaning, anything to distract myself from the growing sense

of dread. We never talked about what would happen. Never talked about what we both knew was inevitable.

Sometimes, I would catch her watching me, a soft smile on her face, like she was trying to memorize everything about this life she had now. The way the light filtered through the window, the sound of the bustling city outside, the feeling of simply existing in this world for just a little longer.

And as the days continued to pass, I could feel the weight of time pressing down on us too. We were both pretending, both trying to act normal, but underneath it all, we were just two people clinging to whatever moments we had left.

It was hard, acting like everything was fine. But for Aya’s sake, for both of our sakes, I kept

going.

The days blurred together after that, each one feeling like a fleeting moment I was trying to hold onto. Aya and I continued our routine—work, outings, and quiet evenings in the apartment. But underneath it all, the tension grew. The reality that her time was slipping away loomed over every interaction, every laugh, every shared moment of silence.

One evening, we went to the park. It was one of those quiet nights where the sky was a deep indigo, the stars barely visible through the city lights. Aya had insisted we come here, saying she wanted to enjoy the fresh air and the peacefulness of the place. We sat on a bench near the pond, the reflection of the city skyline shimmering in the water.

Aya swung her legs back and forth, a habit she picked up when she was thinking deeply. She glanced at me, her expression unusually serious, though she still wore a faint smile.

“You know,” she started, her voice soft, “I’ve been thinking…about how lucky I am.”

“Lucky?” I echoed, surprised. “How do you figure?”

She leaned back on the bench, looking up at the stars. “I’ve had a second chance, haven’t I? Most people don’t get that. After they die, that’s it. But I… I’ve been able to stay a little longer. To see things, I never would have. To spend time with you.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. My heart clenched, knowing what was unsaid between

us.

“I’ve seen more of the world as a ghost than I did when I was alive,” she continued, her gaze still fixed on the sky. “And it’s been beautiful. Even the small things, like walking through a mall or playing a game at the arcade. I never appreciated those moments when I was alive, but

now… they feel so much more important.”

I watched her, her words sinking in. She was saying goodbye, in her own way, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I had been preparing for this moment, but no amount of preparation could numb the ache that was growing in my chest.

“Aya…” I began, my voice catching in my throat. “I’m going to miss you.”

She turned to me, her smile soft but filled with a kind of sadness that made my chest tighten.

“I’ll miss you too. More than you know.”

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my emotions in check, but it was getting harder and harder.

“Do you… do you think you’ll disappear soon?”

Her gaze dropped to the ground, and she didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve been remembering more, and with each memory, I feel… different. Like pieces of me are

coming together, but at the same time, I feel like I’m drifting away.”

I clenched my fists in my lap. The thought of Aya vanishing, of losing her completely, terrified me. She had become more than just a ghost haunting my life—she was a part of me now. My companion. My friend.

And soon, she’d be gone.

“I wish I could do something,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Something to keep you here. I don’t want you to go.”

Aya reached over and placed her hand on mine, her touch cold but comforting in its own way. “You’ve done more for me than you’ll ever know. You gave me a chance to feel alive again, even if it was just for a little while. That’s something I’ll always be grateful for.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and final.

I blinked back the tears that were threatening to spill over, but it was no use. “I’m not ready to say goodbye,” I admitted, my voice cracking.

Aya smiled, but this time it was tinged with sorrow. “I don’t think anyone’s ever ready to say goodbye.”

We sat there in silence for a long time, neither of us willing to break the moment. The city lights twinkled around us, the world moving on, indifferent to the weight of our emotions. I could hear the distant hum of traffic, the occasional laughter from a passerby, but it all felt so far away.

Eventually, Aya stood up. She brushed off her skirt, looking more ethereal than ever under the dim light of the park lamps. “Let’s head back. It’s getting late.”

I nodded, though my body felt heavy, like I was moving through water. I didn’t want to get up. I didn’t want to leave this moment behind, because I knew that once we did, the clock would keep ticking. Time would keep moving forward, and soon enough, she’d be gone.

We walked back to the apartment in silence, side by side but worlds apart. I didn’t know how much time we had left—days, hours, maybe even minutes. But I knew that no matter what happened, I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t save her.

That night, as Aya sat by the window, staring out at the city like she always did, I stayed up, watching her. I didn’t want to waste another second, didn’t want to miss a single moment. And in the back of my mind, I prayed for a miracle, even though I knew it wouldn’t come.