Chapter 1: Dead Air

It was quiet — the kind of quiet that made Miles Carter think he’d finally made it.

Not “made it” in the music industry, not the big break he always joked about in front of open mic crowds or to empty bar stools. No. This was something else.

The silence was thick and flat, like a recording studio after someone hit stop. No hum. No air conditioner. No breath.

Then he noticed the couch.

It was olive green and corduroy, old and pilled, the kind you’d find backstage at a dive bar that hadn’t hosted a real act since the ’90s. The light overhead flickered — not in a dramatic, horror-movie way, but with the lazy inconsistency of bad wiring. The room smelled faintly of stale beer and warm vinyl.

Miles sat up. Or floated. Or something in between.

He looked down at himself. No blood. No bruises. No pain. Just his usual hoodie and black jeans. Except… his shirt had no wrinkles, and his shoes didn’t touch the floor.

What the hell…

A cigarette flared in the corner.

“About time you woke up,” came a dry voice. “Thought you might just ghost on me.”

From the shadows, a figure stepped forward — lean, tan, leather jacket over a T-shirt that read “Blame It on the Muse”. Smoke curled from his mouth like lazy punctuation. He looked like he’d been pulled from an old Springsteen tour bus and forgotten.

“Who are you?” Miles asked, standing — or thinking about standing. His legs obeyed, kind of.

“Name’s Cassiel. I’m your… handler? Mentor? Spirit liaison?” He waved the cigarette vaguely. “Whatever helps you sleep. Not that you’ll be doing much of that now.”

Miles blinked. “Wait. Am I…?”

“Dead?” Cassiel grinned. “Yup.”

The word echoed in the room, flattening against the stale walls.

“But I— I was just at the bodega. I was grabbing Red Vines. And then—”

“Collapsed near the dairy aisle. Poor kid stocking oat milk tried CPR. Didn’t take.” He leaned against the cracked wall. “Massive aneurysm. Painless. Lucky, really.”

Miles staggered back, hand gripping the couch like it would anchor him to something real. “No. That’s not— I still had gigs— I was writing—”

“You were drifting,” Cassiel said, with no cruelty. “You died with five bucks in your checking account and thirty-seven unfinished songs in your phone.”

“I wasn’t ready.”

Cassiel took a drag. “Most people aren’t.”

The room dimmed slightly. Or maybe Miles was dimming.

“So what now? Is this it? Eternal lounge lizard limbo?”

Cassiel’s smile curled like smoke. “Not quite. You’ve got unfinished business. You wrote music, Miles. That’s a kind of magic. But you never finished the real songs. The ones that meant something.”

Miles frowned. “I’ve written hundreds—”

“Yeah, and forgot ‘em just as fast. But I’m not talking about jingles and break-up ballads. I’m talking soul-deep. Ghost-borne.” Cassiel pointed to the air above Miles’s head.

Faintly, just barely, something shimmered — five glowing orbs, each dull as an unlit bulb.

“You’ve got to write five true songs before you move on,” Cassiel said. “Songs that resonate. With the living. With you.”

Miles stared at the lights. “And if I don’t?”

Cassiel took one last drag and flicked the cigarette into nowhere. “Then you fade. No limbo. No afterlife. Just static.”

Miles sat down slowly, head in hands.

“I couldn’t get signed alive. What makes you think I can pull it off dead?”

Cassiel chuckled, low and tired. “Well, that’s the twist. You’re not writing these songs for record deals. You’re writing to be heard. Big difference.”

Miles looked up. “So… I need to haunt people into writing them?”

“Not exactly. You’ll figure it out. The first rule is: no possession. No forced inspiration. Influence, sure. A nudge. A whisper. But the soul has to resonate naturally.”

Miles raised an eyebrow. “So, ghost songwriting?”

Cassiel winked. “Hence the name: (g)host writer.”

The lights above flickered once, as if in applause.