I wake up to the sound of rain against the window.
It's one of those slow, steady rains that feels like it's been going on forever and will never stop. The kind that makes the whole world feel gray and heavy. I lie in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rhythm of water hitting glass.
It's been three weeks since Marcus and Emma moved on. Three weeks since I watched two souls finally find peace at my kitchen table. Three weeks of waiting for the next one to show up.
Because there will be a next one. I know that now. Whatever this thing is, whatever strange purpose I've stumbled into, it's not finished with me yet.
I swing my legs out of bed and sit on the edge for a moment, rubbing my face. My body aches in that vague way that comes from sleeping too much or not enough. Hard to tell which anymore. The bedroom is dim, the curtains drawn, and I can't remember the last time I opened them fully.
The apartment is quiet as I make my way to the kitchen. Quiet in a way that used to bother me, back when the silence felt like something crushing me from all sides. Now it's just... there. A constant companion. Not comfortable, exactly, but familiar.
I start the coffee maker and lean against the counter while it brews. The machine gurgles and hisses, filling the kitchen with that rich, bitter smell. It's one of the few things that still feels normal. Coffee in the morning. A small ritual that connects me to the person I used to be.
While I wait, I look at the table. The same table where I've eaten thousands of meals. Where my wife and I used to sit across from each other, talking about our days, making plans we'd never get to fulfill. Where Marcus sat, broken and desperate. Where Emma forgave him.
It's just a table. Wood and screws and varnish. But it's become something else now. A threshold between worlds. A confessional booth. A courtroom where the dead come seeking judgment or absolution.
The coffee finishes brewing, and I pour myself a cup. Black, no sugar. I carry it to the table and sit in my usual spot, the chair that faces the window. The rain streaks down the glass, distorting the view of the street below.
I think about Marcus a lot. Wonder where he is now, if there's anything after this. If Emma found whatever she was looking for on the other side. Sometimes I catch myself hoping they're together somewhere, two souls who helped each other heal. But I don't know if it works that way. Don't know if any of this works in a way that makes sense.
My phone buzzes on the table. A text from Torres.
"Coffee later? Want to check in on you."
I stare at the message for a moment. Torres has been good about this, about checking in without being pushy. He knows I'm still recovering, still finding my way back to something resembling normal life. What he doesn't know is that I've been sitting at this table every night, talking to ghosts.
I text back: "Yeah, sounds good. Noon?"
His reply is immediate: "Perfect. Usual place."
The usual place is a diner three blocks from the precinct. We've been meeting there for years, back when we were partners, back when my life made sense. Before my wife died. Before everything fell apart.
I set the phone down and take another sip of coffee. The rain continues its steady drumming against the window. I should get up, take a shower, get dressed. Should start my day like a normal person. But I just sit here, holding my cup, staring at the empty chair across from me.
It's strange how quickly the extraordinary becomes ordinary. A month ago, if someone had told me I'd be having conversations with the dead, I would have laughed. Or maybe checked myself into a psychiatric ward. But now? Now it just feels like part of my routine. Wake up, make coffee, wait to see if a ghost shows up.
I think about the pattern. Marcus came first, carrying his guilt like a physical weight. Then Emma, small and wise beyond her years, teaching both Marcus and me about forgiveness. They were connected, their stories intertwined. But what about the next one? Will it be someone random, someone whose death has nothing to do with me or my past? Or is there some logic to who appears at this table?
I don't have answers. Just questions that pile up like unpaid bills.
The morning stretches out slowly. I shower, shave, put on clean clothes. Small acts of self-care that feel like victories some days. I make toast but only eat half. My appetite hasn't fully returned, even after these weeks of relative stability.
By eleven thirty, I'm heading out to meet Torres. The rain has lightened to a drizzle, and I walk the six blocks to the diner with my hands in my pockets, watching my breath fog in the cold air.
Torres is already there when I arrive, sitting in our usual booth by the window. He's got coffee in front of him and he's scrolling through his phone, probably checking work emails. He looks up when I slide into the seat across from him and grins.
"Crowe. You look less like death today."
"Thanks. That's exactly what every man wants to hear."
"I'm serious. You've got some color back. Been eating?"
"Enough."
"Sleeping?"
"Some."
Torres studies me for a moment, that detective's gaze that misses nothing. Then he nods, apparently satisfied that I'm not actively dying. "Good. Because I've been thinking."
"Dangerous."
"Shut up." He leans forward. "I think you should come back. Not full time, not right away. But maybe consult on some cases. Cold cases, specifically. The kind of thing where we need a fresh perspective."
I pick up the menu even though I know what I'm going to order. "I don't know if I'm ready for that."
"You've been saying that for three months, Ethan. At some point, you need to decide if you're ever going to be ready, or if you're just going to let your skills rot while you sit in that apartment."
He's not wrong. But how do I explain that I have been working? That I've been solving cases, just not the kind that show up in police files?
"I'll think about it," I say finally.
Torres doesn't push. He knows me well enough to recognize when I need space. We order food and talk about other things. His kids, his wife Maria's new promotion, department gossip. Normal things that make me feel connected to the world of the living.
But part of my mind is elsewhere. Part of me is already back at that table, waiting to see who shows up next.
After lunch, I walk back home through streets that feel both familiar and foreign. I've lived in this city my whole adult life, but sometimes it feels like I'm seeing it for the first time. Or maybe I'm the one who's changed, and everything else stayed the same.
Back in my apartment, I do small tasks to fill the time. Laundry. Dishes. Organizing the bookshelf that doesn't need organizing. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied.
As evening approaches, I find myself drawn back to the table. I make dinner, simple pasta with sauce from a jar, and I set two places out of habit. One for me, one for whoever might appear.
The sky outside darkens early, the way it does in late autumn. The streetlights flicker on, casting orange pools of light on the wet pavement below. I eat slowly, watching the world outside my window. Cars passing. People hurrying home from work. Life continuing the way it always does.
After dinner, I clean up and make fresh coffee. Two cups. I sit at the table and pull out a book I've been trying to read for weeks, but the words blur together. I can't concentrate. There's an energy in the air tonight, a tension that makes my skin prickle.
Something's coming.
I set the book aside and just wait. The clock on the wall ticks steadily. Eight PM. Eight thirty. Nine.
The temperature drops suddenly, noticeably. I see my breath fog in the air, and the hairs on my arms stand up. The lights flicker once, twice, then steady.
Here we go.
The kid appears on a Tuesday.
Not gradually, the way Marcus did. Not with the hesitation of someone testing the waters. This one just manifests in the chair across from me, solid and present, staring with eyes that have seen things no child should see.
He's maybe ten years old. Dark hair, pale skin, wearing clothes that look like they're from the nineties. A striped shirt, jeans with grass stains on the knees, sneakers that were probably white once. His hands rest on the table, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm.
I set down my coffee and study him. After Marcus and Emma, I've learned not to panic when the dead show up at my table. Doesn't mean I'm comfortable with it, but at least I don't drop things anymore.
"Hey," I say quietly. "I'm Ethan."
The boy doesn't respond immediately. He just keeps staring, his expression caught between fear and determination. Then, slowly, he speaks.
"You help people." His voice is soft, uncertain. "Dead people."
"I try to."
"Can you help me?"
"That depends. What's your name?"
He hesitates, then: "Samuel. Samuel Harding."
I pull my notebook closer, the same one I used for Marcus's case. The pages are worn now, edges curled from use. I flip to a clean sheet and write down the name.
"How long have you been..." I pause, searching for the right word. "How long since you passed?"
"Twenty years. Give or take." Samuel's fingers stop tapping. "It's hard to keep track. Time feels different when you're stuck."
Twenty years. That would put his death around 2005. I do the mental math. If he was ten when he died, he'd be thirty now if he'd lived. Instead, he's frozen at this age, trapped in whatever limbo exists between here and wherever comes next.
"What happened to you, Samuel?"
His face darkens. "There was a fire. At the orphanage where I lived. The Mercy Heights Home for Children." He says the name slowly, carefully, like he's practiced it. "It burned down. They said it was an accident."
"But it wasn't?"
"No." The word comes out hard, certain. "It wasn't an accident. People died that night, Mr. Crowe. Kids like me. And nobody ever told the truth about what really happened."
I lean back in my chair, processing. An orphanage fire, twenty years ago. Multiple casualties. Officially ruled accidental, but a victim's ghost is telling me otherwise. This already feels bigger than Marcus's case, more complicated.
"Why come to me now? Why not earlier?"
Samuel looks down at his hands. "I've been trying. For years, I've been trying to get someone's attention. But most people can't see us. Can't hear us. You're different. You helped that other man, the one who hurt those kids in the bus accident. I watched you work with him."
The thought of being watched by ghosts I can't see makes my skin crawl, but I keep my expression neutral. "You've been observing me?"
"Not just you. Others too. But you're the only one who actually listens. Who tries to understand." He meets my eyes again. "I need you to find out what really happened that night. Who started the fire. Why they did it. The truth has been buried for twenty years, and I can't move on until someone knows what really happened."
I write down the details in my notebook. Mercy Heights Home for Children. Fire. Multiple deaths. 2005, approximately. Then I look up at Samuel.
"What do you remember about that night?"
His expression shifts, becomes distant. "Smoke. So much smoke. I was sleeping in the dormitory on the second floor. Something woke me up. The smell, maybe, or the heat. When I opened my eyes, the hallway was already filled with smoke."
"What did you do?"
"I tried to wake up the other kids. Tommy was in the bed next to mine. Lisa was across the room. But the smoke was so thick, and the fire was spreading so fast." His voice gets smaller. "I made it to the window. I remember thinking I could climb down, that I could get help. But then something fell. Part of the ceiling, I think. And then..."
He trails off, staring at nothing.
"And then you died," I finish gently.
Samuel nods. "I don't remember the pain. Just the falling sensation, and then waking up in this in-between place. Watching my body being carried out with the others."
I give him a moment before asking the next question. "You said people lied about what happened. What makes you think it wasn't an accident?"
"Because I saw him."
"Saw who?"
"The man who started it." Samuel's hands curl into fists. "I don't know his name, but I saw him in the building that night, before the fire started. He was downstairs, in the office area. He was pouring something on the floor. Liquid, from a can. And he had this look on his face, like he was concentrating really hard on what he was doing."
Accelerant. The kid is describing someone spreading accelerant. If that's true, this wasn't just murder. This was premeditated arson with multiple victims.
"Did you tell anyone? Before you died, did you tell the staff?"
Samuel shakes his head. "I never got the chance. By the time I realized what I'd seen, by the time I understood what it meant, the fire had already started. And then everything happened so fast."
"Can you describe the man? What he looked like?"
"Older. Maybe forty or fifty? It's hard to tell when you're a kid. He had dark hair, wore a jacket. That's all I remember. It was dark, and I only saw him for a few seconds."
Not much to go on, but it's something. I make notes about the description, then flip back through my notebook to a blank page where I start sketching out a timeline.
"Samuel, I need you to tell me everything you remember about the orphanage. Who ran it, who worked there, who the other kids were. Any detail might be important."
He thinks for a moment, then starts talking. "Dr. Halloway was the director. He was in charge of everything. Then there was Sister Miriam. She was really strict, always making us pray and follow rules. There were other staff members too, but those are the main ones I remember."
I write down the names. "What about the other children? How many were there?"
"Maybe thirty kids total. Different ages. Some were really young, like five or six. Others were teenagers, almost ready to leave."
"And the fire happened at night?"
"Yeah. Late. Most of us were already asleep."
"Who discovered it first? Who raised the alarm?"
Samuel frowns, concentrating. "I don't know. I just remember waking up to smoke and chaos. Someone must have called the fire department, because I heard sirens before I... before it happened."
I tap my pen against the notebook, thinking. A fire at an orphanage, twenty years ago. Multiple deaths. Witnesses who claimed it was an accident. But Samuel saw someone spreading accelerant beforehand.
The question is: why? What motive would someone have for burning down an orphanage full of children?
"Samuel, was there anything unusual happening at the orphanage before the fire? Any conflicts, any problems?"
He chews his lip, thinking. "There were always rumors among us kids. Stories about children disappearing. Being adopted by families we never saw. Some kids said the adults were doing bad things, but I never knew if that was true or just kids being dramatic."
Children disappearing. Unofficial adoptions. Red flags are already popping up in my mind. This is starting to smell like something much worse than simple arson.
"I need to investigate this properly," I tell Samuel. "That means accessing official records, interviewing witnesses if any are still alive, visiting the site. It's going to take time."
"I've waited twenty years," Samuel says quietly. "I can wait a little longer."
"But I can't do this alone. I'm going to need help from someone I trust. Someone who has access to police resources."
"Will you tell them about me?"
I consider the question. Torres is my oldest friend, my former partner. We've been through hell together. But telling him I'm talking to ghosts? That I'm getting case information from the dead? That's a conversation I'm not ready to have.
"No," I say finally. "I'll find another way to explain how I got interested in the case. But I need you to understand something, Samuel. If I'm going to solve this, I need to approach it like any other investigation. That means evidence, witnesses, forensics. I can't just take your word for it."
"I understand." He looks at me with those old, sad eyes. "I don't expect you to just believe me. I want you to find proof. Real proof that shows what happened."
"Good." I close my notebook. "Give me a few days to start digging. In the meantime, can you appear here regularly? I'll probably have questions as I learn more."
Samuel nods. "Every night, if you need me."
He starts to fade, becoming translucent around the edges. Before he disappears completely, I stop him with one more question.
"Samuel, why now? What made you decide to reach out after twenty years?"
He's almost gone, but I hear his answer clearly.
"Because I'm not the only one stuck there. There are others. Other kids who died that night. And they're all waiting for someone to tell the truth."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone at the table with my notes and a sick feeling in my stomach.
Multiple child victims. A possible cover-up. A twenty-year-old cold case that nobody seems to care about anymore.
I finish my coffee and stare at the name I've written at the top of the page: Mercy Heights Home for Children.
Tomorrow, I'll call Torres and pitch this as a cold case worth reopening. I'll need to be careful about how I present it, what information I claim to have found. Torres is sharp. He'll ask questions. He'll want to know why I suddenly care about a decades-old orphanage fire.
But I'll figure it out. I always do.
I spend the next hour doing preliminary research on my laptop. A quick search brings up several news articles from 2005 about the fire. The headlines are sensational: "Orphanage Tragedy Claims Six Lives" and "Community Mourns Lost Children."
I read through the articles, taking notes. The official investigation concluded that the fire started in the building's old electrical system. An accident caused by faulty wiring in the basement. No signs of arson. No evidence of foul play.
Six confirmed deaths. Four children and two staff members. Multiple injuries. The building was a total loss, eventually demolished. The remaining children were relocated to other facilities.
Dr. Richard Halloway, the director, was quoted extensively in the articles. He spoke about the tragedy, about the children lost, about the community coming together. He seemed genuinely devastated, at least in print.
Sister Miriam was also mentioned, described as a long-time caregiver at the facility. She provided a statement about hearing the fire alarm and trying to evacuate the children.
I find a few follow-up articles from the weeks after the fire. Insurance investigations. Community fundraisers for the surviving children. A memorial service.
Then nothing. The story faded from the news cycle, replaced by other tragedies, other headlines.
But Samuel says someone spread accelerant. That someone deliberately started that fire.
I dig deeper, searching for anything unusual. Court records. Police reports. Anything that might suggest the official conclusion was wrong.
That's when I find something interesting. A small article, buried in the archives of a local community newspaper. Published about three months after the fire.
"Former Orphanage Employee Raises Questions About Fire Investigation."
The article is brief, just a few paragraphs. It mentions a woman named Elena Morse, who worked as a caregiver at Mercy Heights. She claimed the fire investigation was incomplete, that there were inconsistencies in the official report. But her concerns were apparently dismissed by authorities.
I search for more information about Elena Morse, but find nothing recent. The trail goes cold after that one article.
But it's enough. It's a lead.
I add her name to my notes, along with the others: Dr. Halloway, Sister Miriam, Elena Morse. Three people who were there that night. Three potential witnesses.
By the time I close my laptop, it's after midnight. My eyes are burning from staring at the screen, but my mind is racing.
This case is going to be complicated. Twenty years is a long time. Memories fade. Evidence disappears. People move on or die.
But Samuel is counting on me. And if he's right, if that fire really was arson, then someone got away with murdering children. Someone has been living free for twenty years while six victims remained trapped between worlds.
I can't let that stand.
Tomorrow, I'll call Torres. I'll pitch this as a personal project, a cold case I want to reexamine. I'll be vague about my sources, claim I stumbled across some old articles that raised questions.
He'll probably think I'm going through some kind of grief-driven obsession, trying to distract myself from losing my wife by diving into impossible cases. Maybe that's not entirely wrong.
But he'll help. Torres always helps.
I make myself another cup of coffee, even though I know I won't sleep tonight. My mind is already working through the investigation, planning my approach, anticipating obstacles.
The Hollow Orphanage. That's what some of the articles called it. Mercy Heights, hollowed out by fire, left as an empty shell before the demolition.
But hollowed out before that too, maybe. Hollowed out by whatever was happening inside those walls. Whatever led someone to burn it all down.
I sit at the table where Samuel appeared, where Marcus sat before him, where Emma forgave her killer. This table has become something more than furniture. It's a confessional, a courtroom, a gateway between the living and the dead.
And now it's a crime scene briefing room.
I open my notebook again and start making a proper case file. Names. Dates. Known facts. Questions that need answers.
At the top of the first page, I write:
CASE: Mercy Heights Orphanage Fire DATE: Approximately 2005 VICTIMS: Six confirmed (four children, two adults) OFFICIAL RULING: Accidental (electrical fire) ALTERNATE THEORY: Arson/Murder
Below that, I add:
PRIMARY WITNESS: Samuel Harding (deceased) PERSONS OF INTEREST: Dr. Richard Halloway, Sister Miriam, Elena Morse, Unknown Male (40-50s, dark hair)
I stare at the list for a long time, then add one more line:
MOTIVE: Unknown (possible connection to missing children, unofficial adoptions?)
This is going to be messy. This is going to be painful. This is going to require me to dig into the worst parts of human nature.
But that's what I do. That's what I've always done.
I'm Detective Ethan Crowe, and I solve cases.
Even when the witnesses are ghosts.