For once, the house was quiet.
Too quiet, which in Ethan's experience was basically a warning siren.
The sun had set. The living room lamps glowed warm and soft, the kind of lighting that made normal people feel cozy. For Ethan, it just highlighted how wrong everything still was. The walls looked too perfect, the air smelled too clean, and the kitchen—of all places—was spotless. That alone was unnatural.
He stood by the stove, ladle in hand, stirring curry like a man defusing a bomb. "Alright," he muttered, "easy does it. Just dinner. Just food. Totally normal. No hauntings, no cults, no—"
The cupboard door creaked open by itself.
"—no poltergeists," he finished flatly. "Cool. Great talk, universe."
He reached out and closed it. It opened again. Slowly.
He closed it harder. It opened again—faster this time.
Ethan exhaled through his nose. "Okay. So that's how it's gonna be tonight."
He ignored it. Focused on the curry. The smell of spice and simmering vegetables filled the air, grounding him for a moment. He actually felt human again.
Then the lights flickered.
"Don't you dare," he said, pointing the ladle upward like a sword. "I will eat this curry in the dark, and I will enjoy it."
The lights stabilized.
Ethan smiled. "That's what I thought."
He turned off the stove, ladled the curry into two bowls, and set the table. Across from him, the ghost was already sitting.
White dress. Pale face. Hair covering her eyes. Perfectly still.
"Yeah," Ethan muttered, glaring at her, "of course you'd join. God forbid I eat in peace."
She didn't respond—just tilted her head slightly, like she was judging his plating skills.
"Don't give me that look," he hissed quietly. "You don't even eat."
Footsteps approached behind him. The ninja had woken up.
Ethan straightened immediately, plastering on a grin that could barely hide the twitch in his left eye.
She entered the dining room slowly, leaning slightly on the wall for balance. The bandage on her leg was fresh. She'd washed up—her torn outfit replaced by one of Ethan's oversized T-shirts and a spare pair of sweatpants. Somehow she still moved like a trained blade, even limping.
"Smells good," she said softly, her voice calm but low.
"Yeah, well, it's edible, probably. Don't quote me."
She sat down across from him—the same chair where the ghost already sat. Ethan's throat tightened.
He forced a casual tone. "Go ahead, it's still warm."
She nodded. Then, for the first time since they met, she reached up and removed her mask.
Ethan forgot how to blink.
Under the cracked ceramic was a face that didn't belong in his haunted, insane life. Her skin was pale but not cold—like the first hint of dawn after a long night. Her eyes were a piercing blue, not glassy or icy, but clear, sharp, aware. Her hair, black as spilled ink, framed her face messily from the fall, yet somehow made her look untouchable. Her lips—soft, steady—curved faintly as she breathed out in relief.
She caught him staring and raised an eyebrow. "What?"
Ethan blinked hard. "Nothing. Just—uh—checking for… curses. You know, standard safety check."
Her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile. "You're terrible at lying."
"Yeah, it's a talent."
She started to eat. Ethan followed suit, though every spoonful felt like Russian roulette with a ghost sitting three feet away.
Every now and then, the spoon beside her plate shifted slightly.
The chair creaked on its own.
A shadow flickered across the wall though nothing moved.
Ethan pretended not to see any of it. He was not about to ruin the first semi-normal dinner he'd had in weeks.
"So," he said between mouthfuls, "you got a name, or do I just keep calling you Ninja 47?"
She glanced at him, chewing. "Later," she said. "Not yet."
He shrugged. "Fair. Mystery adds character."
As he spoke, the ghost leaned closer to her—closer and closer, her head hovering just over the ninja's shoulder. Her hair brushed the air beside her face, but the ninja didn't react. She couldn't see it. Couldn't feel it.
Ethan's spoon froze halfway to his mouth. His brain screamed don't look, but his eyes betrayed him.
The ghost turned her head toward him. Slowly.
Her face was inches from the ninja's, but her attention was all on him.
Ethan forced a smile that felt like it was stapled onto his face. "So, uh—good curry, right? Not poisoned? Tastes human?"
The ninja frowned. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing! Just, you know, making sure you're… not seeing anything weird."
She squinted. "No. Why?"
"Cool. Great. Just checking."
The ghost reached for the ninja's bowl. Her fingers dipped through the spoon, through the curry, through the table—each motion leaving a faint frost on the surface. The temperature dropped several degrees. Ethan could see his breath.
"Cold," the ninja murmured, rubbing her arms. "Did you turn on the air?"
Ethan laughed nervously. "Oh yeah, the, uh… central haunting system. Auto mode."
She stared at him blankly. "…You mean cooling system."
"Sure. That."
She sighed, clearly too tired to care about his mental breakdown. She finished her bowl, leaned back, and closed her eyes for a moment. "This is the first warm meal I've had in days."
Ethan looked at her, at the faint lines of exhaustion under her eyes, at how fragile her breath looked in the candlelight. For a second, he forgot the ghost.
"Glad you liked it," he said quietly.
When she opened her eyes again, she met his gaze—and for the briefest moment, he felt grounded. Real. Not haunted, not cursed. Just human again.
Then the bowl slid off the table by itself.
It shattered. Curry splattered across the floor.
The ninja jumped up, startled. "What the hell—"
Ethan's eyes darted to the ghost. She was standing now, her blank face turned toward him, her hair drifting like she was underwater.
He exhaled slowly through his teeth. "Okay. That's it. No dessert for you."
The ninja looked at him like he'd grown another head. "What?"
"Nothing," he said quickly, waving it off. "I'll clean it up. You go rest. The floor's haunted—uh, hot. Slippery. You might fall."
She frowned but didn't argue. Limping, she left the kitchen.
As soon as she was gone, Ethan turned to the ghost. "You done?!" he hissed. "You can't just throw curry! That's rude—and expensive!"
The ghost tilted her head again, silent.
"Don't give me that innocent act," he said. "You're jealous. Admit it."
Her expression didn't change, but the temperature dropped further. Frost crawled up the windowpane, forming words for just an instant before fading away.
STAY.
Ethan rubbed his face, groaning. "You know, you've really gotta work on your communication skills."
He looked down at the broken bowl, at the faint frost still clinging to the shards. Then back at her.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said quietly. "Not tonight."
For a moment, her head tilted slightly the other way—almost like approval. Then she vanished.
The lights steadied. The air warmed. The house was quiet again.
Ethan sighed, grabbed a towel, and crouched to clean the mess. "Dinner for three," he muttered. "Two alive. One emotionally unavailable."
He paused, staring at his reflection in the spilled curry—his own tired eyes staring back. For a second, he swore another pair of eyes blinked behind his, faintly glowing red.
He blinked hard. They were gone.
"…Yeah," he whispered. "Totally normal house."