It started with breath. Not mine. Rachel's. Sharp, desperate, like her lungs were clawing back life. And I was inside her again. Her heart galloped in my ears. Our fingers twitched in tandem. I wasn't just tethered to her—I was fully merged once more. We were alive. Sort of.
My last memory was cold. A darkness too still. The kind of silence that isn't empty—but eternal. And now… this. A chandelier shimmered overhead. Gold filigree. Cut crystal droplets. We were lying on a velvet chaise in a room that looked like it had been stolen from a royal palace. Marble floors. Mahogany walls. Windows too tall for mortals.
Rachel blinked. I blinked with her. And then came the voice—smooth, calm, terrifying in its normalcy.
"You're finally awake."
Miss Rosaline sat across the room in a high-backed chair, legs crossed, a half-read book resting on her lap like she'd been waiting hours. Rachel jolted upright. I felt the tremor ripple through both of us. My panic slammed into hers. What the hell had just happened?
I tried to speak, but she beat me to it. "I saw it too," she whispered, breath shaky. "The drowning… the stillness…" Her voice cracked. She wasn't just scared. She was shaken. And somehow, for once, I didn't have a sarcastic remark to cut through the fear. I was too busy trying not to spiral.
Dante—Gramps—he had tried to send me there. And he would have succeeded. If she hadn't stopped him.
Miss Rosaline closed the book with a soft thud. "You were seconds away," she said quietly. "Another breath, and you'd have been lost." Rachel found her voice. "Lost where?"
Miss Rosaline looked up.
"Limbo."
The word landed like ice in our chest.
"It's not hell, though that's what our kind often calls it," she continued. "It's worse. A prison of nothingness. No punishment. No reward. Just… forever." Rachel's fists clenched in our lap. "But why would Serah be sent there?" she demanded. "She hasn't hurt anyone. I let her in. I wanted her here."
"I can't leave even if I wanted to," I said through our mouth, my voice dry, hollow. "I've tried." The room was silent for a beat. Then, gently, I asked, "Why did you save me?"
Miss Rosaline's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. "You're not disposable," she said. A pause. "And because Madame said so."
Madame. The word echoed inside us, scraping against memories like bone on concrete. Kevin had used it when he greeted Miss Rosaline. Rachel looked at me in the mirror on the far wall; I saw the realization bloom in her eyes at the same moment it struck me. Before we could speak, Miss Rosaline nodded. "Yes. She was there that night."
She folded her hands on her lap. "And now, we need to talk."
Rachel blinked. "About what?"
"You," she said simply. "You're a vessel."
We froze. Rachel let out a shaky laugh—thin, brittle, nothing like humor. "What now?"
"A vessel," Miss Rosaline said. "A human built to hold more than one soul without collapsing."
Rachel blinked. "So I'm… what? A ghost hostel?"
"That's not how I'd phrase it."
I pushed forward inside our shared mind. 'Rachel.'
She exhaled and let me take control, our spine straightening as my voice slipped through her lips. "This is Serah. I'm here."
Miss Rosaline gave a small nod. "Good."
She folded her hands, tone sharpening. "Most humans can't withstand a second soul. They break. They rot. Or they die. But vessels like us—rare. Valuable. Hunted."
Rachel listened quietly, but I felt her pulse spike under my control.
I swallowed. "Kathy and Kevin. Are they… like her?"
Miss Rosaline drew a breath. "Yes. But not the same kind. Kathy is new. Still uncertain. Still savable. Kevin…"
A pause.
"He was engineered by the Cult. Raised for this. Weaponized."
The word Cult made Rachel's body flinch, even in my grip.
"They're after you, Rachel," she said.
That did it. The guilt punched through me—sharp, electric—so hard it nearly buckled us both. It flooded Rachel instantly, a surge of panic that wasn't hers but hit her anyway. She staggered, hand gripping the arm of the chair.
"This is my fault," I choked. Not spoken—felt. A confession that burned.
Rachel heard it.
It's okay, she lied gently. We'll handle it together.
But she didn't believe a word of it, and the doubt ricocheted across our shared nerves.
She steadied herself and asked aloud, voice thin, "What do you mean by 'like us'?"
Miss Rosaline tilted her head, eyes glinting with something too calm. "Because I'm not alone either."
A faint smile.
"I house three other souls."
Our breath caught. "You're possessed too?" Rachel asked.
"I'm a spirit medium," she replied. "A perfected vessel. I've trained. Conditioned. I know who's inside me, and I let them speak when I choose." Rachel stared. Miss Rosaline leaned back. "The first soul I hosted was a childhood friend. After he died, I felt him. Then helped him cross over."
"And this Madame?" I asked. "She's not with me now. But you'll meet her soon."
A maid entered then, placing a tray of food on the coffee table. "Let's eat," Miss Rosaline said. "Then we'll continue."
Dinner was quiet. Rachel took over again, barely touching her food. She was too pale, too still, too weighed down by everything she'd learned. Mid-bite, she finally spoke. "I was just curious… Do you remember everything they say? The ones inside you?"
"Some conversations. Some just… impressions. It depends."
"And Madame?"
"She doesn't leave impressions. She makes them."
After dinner, another maid arrived. "The study is ready. Madame is waiting." Miss Rosaline nodded. "Go on. I'll join you later."
The study felt like a sacred chamber—walls of leather-bound books, a fire low in the hearth, a single chair in the center facing the shelves. A woman stood before the fire, her silhouette bathed in gold and shadow. When she turned, the air changed.
She was stunning—not beautiful in the normal sense, but unreal. Her skin glowed like candlelit marble. Her eyes held storms. Her presence commanded. She didn't need an introduction. She didn't give one. We knew. This was the force that made Kathy sit down with a whisper. The presence Kevin bowed to. Madame.
She looked down at the study table, where a book lay open. Rachel stepped closer, reading the title aloud. "The Promise."
My breath stopped. Beneath the title: by Serah Elenora Ray.
My name. My story. My soul on paper.
Before Rachel could speak, Madame looked up. "I was curious," she said, voice smooth as silk. She smiled faintly. "You described the architecture of the afterlife with impressive precision, Serah. Far beyond storybook embellishment." She lifted the book, gliding her hand along its spine.
"How did you know?"
Her eyes locked with mine—not Rachel's. Mine.
I swallowed, unsure if ghosts could even feel nerves. "My grandfather," I replied. "He used to tell me stories growing up. Wild ones. About souls, rituals… places between life and death. I just… remembered them."
"His name was Raymond, wasn't it?" Miss Rosaline said softly from the doorway. Rachel and I both blinked. I stepped forward in our mind, taking control. "How do you know that?"
Miss Rosaline pointed at the book. "'In loving memory of my grandfather.' And the protagonist's name is Raymond. You immortalized him."
A stillness filled the room, something unspoken stitching itself between us.
Then Rachel's voice cracked through the quiet. "Speaking of immortality… why would that old man—Dante, or whoever he really is—try to send Serah to Limbo?"
Miss Rosaline's face dimmed slightly, as though a light behind her eyes had lowered. She looked toward Madame, worried. Madame didn't flinch. "That fool…" she said at last, her words slow, aged. "Always bound by duty. Rules meant more to him than people ever did." There was no venom, just regret and a kind of centuries-old ache.
Then Madame lifted her chin, the mask sliding smoothly back into place. Rosaline gently stepped forward. "Rest now," she said. "You've both been through more than enough. We'll begin again tomorrow. Find out what Serah can do, what she can't. And of course—attend college like nothing ever happened."
That last line earned a dry laugh from Rachel.
We were escorted to our room. The sheets smelled like rosewater and silence. Rachel collapsed onto the bed, emotionally fried. I hovered inside her, quiet.
We lay there in stillness until she whispered, "Will you be leaving soon?" "Most likely," I said. She went quiet. Then: "Just when we started acting like actual sisters." Her voice cracked on sisters.
I didn't know what to say. Before I could form a thought, she was asleep. Exhaustion had finally won. She needed it. She deserved peace after everything. I watched her sleep from the inside—her chest rising and falling, her brow twitching in dreams. For the first time, I felt guilty for ever resenting her.
Please, I whispered into whatever gods haunt ghosts. Don't let her suffer more than she already has.
Then her phone buzzed. A message.
Ezra: "Can we meet tomorrow?"
Rachel was unconscious, so I opened the phone and typed back:
Sure. Why not?
He was typing. Then he stopped. Typing again. Stopped. I waited. Still typing. Still nothing. I stared at the screen until the battery drained.
What are you thinking, Ezra?
◆ Scene Cut: Ezra ◆
Ezra sat alone in his car, parked in a narrow alley behind a derelict church. The engine was off. The windows fogged from his breath. Inside, he was screaming silently. His fists trembled on the steering wheel, jaw locked, eyes wild and unfocused. But no sound came out—only the low, muffled whisper of something inside him.
Breathing back.