Chapter 6: One Ghost, One Little Girl

So… how exactly was I supposed to fix this?

Maybe I could conjure a lollipop and smile like everything was fine. No. That was weird. Creepy, even, and firmly in the “bad ideas” category. I scratched my head and went for the only thing I had left: talking. It wasn’t much, but it was honest.

“What’s your name?” I asked, crouching a short, respectful distance away.

No reply. Just quiet sobs that swelled into a storm of grief until her body finally gave out. She slumped over, unconscious. I figured the crash was inevitable. Tonight had pushed her past her limit. The escape, the trauma, and everything had caught up to her.

Dawn crept over the hills in slow gold, casting long shadows across the road. When she stirred, her voice was small and hoarse.

“It hurts… I want my mommy back…”

I glanced at her feet, bruised, swollen, and scraped raw. Something twisted in my chest. Guilt, maybe. I couldn’t fix what had happened. All I could do was hover nearby like some half-useless guardian ghost. The thought of possessing her flickered through my mind, but I shoved it away. That road ended in treating her like a puppet… There was just something uncomfortable with the idea…

“Hey there… I’m Renzo,” I tried, forcing a cheerful tone.

Her expression twisted in fear. “Ah!” she yelped, scrambling backward on her hands. “It’s the bad man!”

Before I could even sigh, she snatched up a rock and chucked it at me. It passed cleanly through my chest and thudded onto the dirt behind me.

“That’s not going to work, as you can see,” I said, spreading my arms. “And no, I’m not a bad man. Just a very confused dead one.”

She blinked, uncertain.

“So… what’s your name?” I tried again. “I am Renzo by the way, but you can call me Ren…”

She sniffled, eyes wary. “N-Nira.”

That was progress.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Her shoulders curled inward. “Bad people… They came to the village. They hurt everyone. And… and… Mom… she’s gone…”

The sobs started again, and I winced. Nothing I could say would fix it, but silence felt cruel too.

“They’re gone now,” I murmured. “The ones who hurt you. They won’t come back.”

Her eyes went wide. “N-No! They’ll take me too!”

I shook my head. “I killed them,” I said simply. “The one with the wand. The lady with the knives. The green guy. Long-ears, too.”

Okay, so I hadn’t technically killed the orc. But I was the reason why he caught an arrow to the face. It was close enough.

She stared at me, trying to understand. “Mister… are you strong?”

That caught me off guard. “I guess? Strong’s relative. There’s always someone stronger, right? Like, uh… nukes. Can’t beat nukes.”

“Can you bring my mom back?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, each word like dragging stone. “But I can’t bring her back…”

I braced for another wave of crying, but it didn’t come. Nira just… stared. Her silver hair clung to her cheeks in clumps of dried blood and ash. Her expression was empty. It was the kind of look I’d seen before in alleyways back home, in shelters and corners of forgotten cities. Kids who’d cried too much and too long. Adults who’d stopped hoping years ago.

That kind of despair scared me more than any blade ever could.

I turned to the horizon, desperate for distraction, for her sake as much as mine. That’s when I saw it.

A wagon rolled into view, slow and steady over the bend. The outline shimmered in the morning light. Bundles of hay and sacks of vegetables filled the back. A farmer or a merchant, maybe. It was a sign of civilization, either way.

I bent toward Nira, tried to nudge her gently, only for my fingers to phase straight through her.

“Hey… Nira…”

There was no response. Her eyes were glazed, her lips still. The wagon creaked to a halt a few feet away. An older man climbed down, his boots crunching gravel.

“Little girl,” he called out, cautiously. “What’re you doing all the way out here?”

Nira didn’t move or speak. Instead, she just sat there, drained of everything.

The man frowned. His voice softened, but the weight behind it said he already understood. “Where are your parents? What happened?”

I didn’t have time.

Before she scared him off with her silence, I slipped back into her. It was easier this time. It was too easy, maybe. The moment I entered, I was hit with a wave of sorrow so heavy it drowned thought. I couldn’t access memories of the possessed, but the emotions? They slammed into me like a freight train.

I dipped just deep enough to cry without forcing it and let the tears come naturally.

“M-My mom…” I hiccupped through her mouth, blinking through the blur. “She’s dead… The village… sniff… It’s gone…”

I paused just long enough. Not for drama, just to breathe through the weight of it.

“I want my mommy back…”

The man’s jaw tightened. He turned back to the wagon and cleared a space, shoving sacks aside.

“Poor girl… Come now. Don’t cry. Everything’ll be alright.”

His voice was kind, but his eyes weren’t fooled. He’d seen this before, maybe with other children. Whatever the case, he didn’t ask for explanations. He just made space.

And that meant, for now, we had a ride.

The man lifted Nira into the wagon with surprising care. His hands were thick with calluses, clearly built for labor. Watching him hoist her up, every fake tear I’d pulled from Nira’s eyes echoed in my head. The guilt curdled in my chest. I’d manipulated her grief and puppeteered her pain just to buy a little mercy. And it worked.

That was the worst part. Not that I’d done it, but that I couldn’t think of a better alternative. I’d long since stopped being shocked by my own decisions, but what else was I supposed to do? Leave her alone on the roadside and hope the next traveler was kinder than they looked?

No. She needed help. And as a ghost, I couldn’t offer much.

I slipped out of her body gently, returning to the cold, detached weightlessness of my ghostly existence. My feet touched the dirt road again. Gravity still acknowledged me, even if the world didn’t. I walked behind the wagon as it creaked forward, the wheels crunching over gravel. Like some stubborn specter, I followed in silence.

The hay and vegetables in the back were stacked high enough to obscure the old man’s view. But between the sacks and crates, I could just make out Nira curled in on herself, with arms wrapped around her knees. She didn’t look my way.

“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice light. “You doing okay?”

Nothing.

“I’m sorry for earlier,” I tried. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just… said things the wrong way.”

Still no reaction. Her eyes were somewhere far beyond the wagon, the road, or me.

“I’m not a bad guy,” I added weakly. “Or… I’m trying not to be.”

I kept going from soft jokes, gentle questions, and even a quiet moment, in case silence worked better. It didn’t. She didn’t flinch, blink, or speak. Just sat there, locked inside whatever place grief had taken her.

By the time the city came into view, the sun had climbed high, casting sharp shadows along the road. Stone towers and timber frames rose behind the outer walls, the kind of picturesque medieval skyline pulled from some dusty fantasy novel. The main gate was unguarded, and the farmer rolled through without so much as a glance.

Inside, narrow streets wound between markets and alleys. The air was thick with bread, smoke, manure, and something sweet I couldn’t name. Nira didn’t react to any of it. Her fingers clutched the hem of her dress like it was the last solid thing left in her world.

I stayed close to the wagon, drifting beside it. The farmer finally pulled to a stop near a storefront, where a merchant waited with a ledger in one hand and ink stains on both sleeves.

“Turnips’re fresh,” the farmer said, patting a burlap sack. “Picked ’em yesterday. Cabbage, radish, onions. Good quality.”

The merchant sniffed and frowned. “Some of it’s bruised. Been on the road?”

“Day and a half,” the farmer replied. “Rain got us, but the tarp kept everything dry.”

The merchant scratched his jaw. “Three silvers.”

“Three?” The farmer scoffed. “Cabbage alone’s worth that during festival week.”

“Four. Not a copper more.”

The farmer sighed, defeated. “Fine. But I want a half-loaf for the road.”

“Cheeky,” the merchant muttered, but dug into his pouch and slapped coins into the farmer’s hand. “Try not to cry into your stew.”

“At least I’ve got stew,” the farmer replied with a tired grin.

When the goods were unloaded and the merchant disappeared back into the shop, the farmer turned to Nira. He knelt beside the wagon, eyes shadowed with regret.

“I’m sorry, little one,” he said softly. “I can’t take you further. I’ve got a wife, and seven mouths to feed. I wish I could do more.”

Nira didn’t respond or even blink. Instead, she just stared past him.

He rested a hand on her shoulder, gentle but helpless. “May the gods watch over you,” he said, not really to her, but more to himself, then stood and climbed back onto the wagon. With a soft click of his tongue, the old horse stirred, and the cart creaked back into motion.

I watched them roll down the road, wheels rumbling over the cobblestones, until they disappeared into the crowd without looking back.

And just like that, we were alone again.

One ghost, and one little girl…