Chapter 18: Second Opinion

“So, what is the problem?” I asked, arms crossed as I leaned on the cold edge of the pew. Lydia had gestured for me to follow her away from the children, and I doubted it was just for quiet prayer time. I tilted my head, studying Lydia. She seemed distracted, her lips slightly parted as if weighing every word.

She clasped her hands tightly and sighed. “I can’t help you.”

Something twisted in my chest, a strange echo of what should’ve been a heartbeat. I frowned, voice sharpening. “Can’t or won’t?” I didn’t mean to sound harsh, but the words just came out that way. “What’s so hard about taking in one traumatized little girl when you’ve already taken in half a dozen street kids?”

Lydia’s face twisted with frustration. Her voice, when it came, was firm and rising with heat. “It’s not about that.” She stood from the pew, her eyes narrowed. “Why would you assume that’s what I meant? Of course, I’ll take her in. I’ve already decided that. I’m talking about you.”

The words struck harder than I expected. My anger fizzled into something small and stupid. I blinked at her, opened my mouth, and closed it again. Then I gave in, let my shoulders slump, and muttered, “I’m sorry. I’m… a bit on edge.”

She didn’t answer. Not right away. She sat again, folding her hands in her lap as though preparing to pray once more. But she remained quiet, waiting.

So I started talking.

“She’s getting worse.” I stared at the floor, ashamed. “At first, I thought she was just coping in her own weird way. You know, kids go through stages. One day she was angry, the next she was quiet. But now…”

My voice caught. I didn’t think ghosts could feel a lump in their throat, but I swear I did. “Now she laughs a lot. Too much. She’s cheerful, but it’s often just… pretending. And then tonight, she called me something.”

Lydia turned her head, listening closely.

“She called me ‘Dad.’” I breathed out slowly, feeling the weight of that word settle on my shoulders again. “I didn’t know what to say. She looked so certain. As if she really believed it. And I—” I gestured helplessly. “I don’t know how to comfort her. I’m not her father. But if I say that to her face, I’ll break something inside her that I can’t fix.”

Lydia reached over, laying her hand where my shoulder would be. It didn’t pass through. I felt the warmth, however faint, as if her faith was enough to anchor my half-existence. Her eyes softened with sympathy.

“She sees you as her protector. And maybe that’s enough for her.”

I didn’t answer.

Instead of clearing things up, my honesty seemed to sink Lydia deeper into a different conclusion. She looked at me with more pity than before, her lips tightening as if forming a prayer she couldn’t say out loud.

She nodded solemnly. “I’ve read of such cases. Spirits who retain form but lose pieces of their memory. I know… I know, I talked about this again and again. Denial is a symptom, and that is a fact. You might have forgotten the truth because it was too painful…”

I wanted to correct her. Really, I did.

There was a short silence between us. The only sound was the faint, persistent creak of the wooden beams above and the occasional clatter of dishes from the other room where the children ate. The light from the altar candles swayed gently, shadows flickering across Lydia’s face. She looked tired, not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the kind that settled deep behind the eyes, worn from worry and questions that couldn’t be answered with faith alone.

Eventually, Lydia broke the silence, her voice calm but laced with that same fatigue. “I’ll help as much as I can… Nira, being surrounded by children her age, should help her ease into something closer to peace. Time heals all wounds, they say.” She paused and looked at me, almost apologetically. “But you’re different. It’s not healing you need, Renzo. It’s closure.”

I let her words settle, though they didn’t comfort me. Closure, huh? It sounded like a luxury I didn’t know how to afford. I tilted my head and said flatly, “I think we had this conversation before.”

Lydia nodded. “Yes. About your unfinished business.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And we’ve identified that the unfinished business is Nira.”

She exhaled through her nose, almost in frustration. “And that’s not enough.”

I looked at her, confused. “What do you mean?”

“There are a lot of unknowns, Renzo,” she said, folding her arms and looking toward the altar as if the religious iconography in front of us might give her answers. “I’m a faith caster. I don’t have the full understanding of death’s boundaries or the supernatural mechanics that keep you here. All I know is what the teachings and rituals tell us, and you defy too many of them. We don’t even know the precise nature of your unfinished business, only that it seems to involve a little girl you insist isn’t your daughter.”

“I’d know if she was,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “I mean… wouldn’t I?”

She didn’t argue. That was worse.

“We also don’t know,” she continued, her voice quieter now, “why you can enter consecrated ground without resistance. Holy grounds repel restless spirits. They reject the impure and the bound.” She stared at me with a hint of reverence and dread. “But you walk through these halls like you belong here.”

I looked down at my ghostly hands, flexing fingers that weren’t entirely there. It hadn’t occurred to me before, not really. I had assumed it was something she did… maybe her prayers, or her tolerance, or Nira’s strange bond to me… but now it all seemed off.

“And there’s more,” she said. “My Holy Lance spell should’ve banished you when I first used it. It didn’t. It only hurt you… And then you stayed. And Nira… she can summon and resurrect you with just a thought. That’s not normal, Renzo. That’s not even within the bounds of known spirit-channeling magic.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but there wasn’t anything to say. Every word she said was true. We’d tried everything: purification rites, memory invocation, even that one awkward attempt at a funeral service. And I was still here.

She looked me in the eyes, and for the first time since I met her, I saw fear behind them. Not fear of me, but fear for me. “There’s a lot we don’t know, Renzo,” she said. “And honestly… it scares me.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

She looked at me, like she was bracing to say something that might sting. Then she straightened and gave me a gentle nod, as if she’d already made the decision. “I think we need a second opinion. I know someone… a friend of mine in the Adventurer’s Guild. She’s not clergy, but she’s experienced. Her team handles supernatural cases, the kind that defy conventional wisdom. She’s seen things I can’t explain, and I trust her.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You trust a bunch of sellswords with something like this?”

She smiled faintly. “They’re not just sellswords. And if there’s anyone who might help us figure out what you are, and what’s really binding you to this world… It’s them.”

I leaned back, silent, letting that settle. A second opinion. Not a priest this time. Not holy rites or prayers. Just someone who’s seen enough weird to not blink when a ghost walks in and says, ‘Hey, do I need an exorcist or a therapist?’

I wasn’t sure what I felt about it.

But at this point, we were out of ideas.