Chapter Four

I sit on my too-small bed, staring out the window, waiting. Like clockwork, the sun dips below the horizon, the sky darkens, and a familiar green glow appears inside Rose's house, barely visible through the layers of dirt and pollen on the side window — one of the few glass panes still intact.

It's her.

I go through my usual routine; the one I've kept up every day that I've been home this week. Check that the coast is clear — I can't be bothered explaining this situation to my flatmates, and I wouldn't even know where to start — and then head out the front of the house, slipping on my slides and going over to Rose's place. She made a comment to me about wearing "inappropriate footwear for wet weather" the other night, exclaiming, "Your poor cold toes!" and now I'm just wearing them to rile her up. I'm half-tempted to turn up barefoot one of these days just to see what she'd say about that.

She's already waiting on her porch, a smile lighting up her face as I wave to her. She really is beautiful. I suck in a cold breath of air, feeling the tightness in my chest that's been there since last Thursday when she disappeared into thin air on me.

I'm falling for this girl, and she's not even really here. I am the biggest idiot of all time, because there's no way this can have a happy ending.

It doesn't matter. I can't stay away. "Hey!" I greet her with a grin.

"Hello Zak." Her eyes dart down to my feet, and a small frown appears between her brows. "Are you not cold?"

"Nah," I lie. It's fucking freezing, to be honest — there's snow down the line — but she doesn't need to know that. I'm pretty sure she can't tell. She's not exactly dressed for the weather either.

"You're shivering," she says, folding her arms across her chest, unimpressed.

"Okay, I'm a little cold," I admit.

The frown between her brows is deeper as she looks over to my place. I follow her gaze to my window; I've left the light on, and you can see everything in my room clearly. "You should go back inside where it's warm. My company is not worth you falling ill."

"I call bullshit on that. You're worth everything. Besides, orcs don't get sick like humans do."

"What, exactly, are you?" she'd asked me a few days ago, and it had taken me a moment to realise that she didn't know. She'd never seen an orc before. She hadn't known non-humans existed until I showed up next door. She didn't even realise that she wasn't human. Her mouth had hung open as she'd tentatively lifted her hands to her ears, feeling the pointed tips.

"That… they were not like this, before."

"Back when you…?" I hadn't been able to finish the question, and she'd only nodded.

"Yes. Back then."

I'd thought she was an elf, but now I'm not so sure. I'm about as non-magical as an orc gets — spell casting is not where my talents lie — but every now and then I feel like I can sense her magic, something more than just her being ghostly.

"I don't like you freezing out here. It hurts my heart to know you're injuring yourself to see me."

"I am not injuring myself," I laugh, just as a low rumbling sound starts up. It takes me a moment to register what it is — a heavy downpour coming this way. "Oh shit!" Without thinking I jump up the porch stairs, avoiding the holes in the wood, as fat raindrops hit my back. The wood under my feet creaks but holds, and I grin down at Rose's shocked face. She's a little less translucent today, which is a good sign. She tends to stick around for longer when she starts off like this.

The rain is still hitting my legs here, but the door to her house is open. I can barely see inside, and hesitate, glancing at her. "It's probably warmer in there, right? Can I come in?"

She nods wordlessly.

"Mind if I keep my shoes on?"

"Please do. It's a mess."

I duck to fit through the doorway, shining the torchlight on my phone, thankful that the build of all of these old houses includes the extra high ceilings. It's actually not as bad as I thought it would be; there's dead bugs and what I'm going to assume are mice and rat droppings on the wooden floor, torn and chewed on wallpaper, curtains that have disintegrated, but there's also furniture that remains standing. An old table that looks like it's made of kauri wood, one of its matching chairs tipped on its side, and a huge wooden chest in the corner.

Rose waits behind me. "Is this how you remember it? Where the furniture is, I mean, and the wallpaper. Or is it newer than when you lived here?"

"This is how it was."

"What year was it, for you, when you were last here?" When I talked to her about the Unravelling, I hadn't mentioned specific dates, just that it's been five years.

"I'm here right now."

I nod. "Yeah, but —"

"When I was alive," she begins, and hearing those words hurts more than I thought it would. I think she's feeling the same, her sentence cutting off as she takes a deep breath. Is she even breathing? I wonder suddenly, observing the rise and fall of her chest. I guess it's a habit; I'm pretty sure ghosts don't need air.

"When I was alive," she begins again, her voice a little shakier, "it was the Great War. 1915. That was when I was last here."

We stare at each other for a long time, the only sound the noise of the pouring rain outside and the continuous dripping of a leak somewhere in the house.

"How did you die?" My voice is barely a whisper.

"I don't know. I don't remember being ill. I don't remember anything terrible here. I used to wonder if perhaps the war had reached here, but then how would this house still be standing?"

I shake my head, suddenly finding a new use for my old research for that WWI play. "The war never reached New Zealand."

"The last thing I remember was the back garden. My father had planted roses for me. I sat under the arbour where the pink climber grew — it was in bloom, and it smelled so beautiful. There were mushrooms in the grass. That is, as far as I know, the last time I was alive."

"Mushrooms?"

"Yes. Pretty white ones, with big caps."

Oh my god. "Did you eat one?" I ask, my voice serious. I saw a doco once, where a family ate poison mushrooms and their livers melted, and I couldn't even stomach supermarket-bought mushrooms for years after that.

" No! " Rose replies, her nose scrunched up in disgust. "Do you think I'm a fool?"

"No," I let out a breathy laugh, "but you had me worried there for a second."

She shakes her head. "I am not that silly, but I suppose it doesn't make a difference anyway, does it? I'm dead." There's a finality in her words that's painful to hear.

"You're here , though, right? I'm talking to you. You're here and you're real. That's pretty amazing." I don't know why I'm trying to give her a pep talk. She's dead . That is pretty fucking serious. It's not like there's any coming back from that, and yet here I am trying to see a silver lining, hoping for some sort of miracle.

That's impossible, though. Her body… I shudder, thinking about the fact that she's probably buried somewhere in that old graveyard under Grafton Bridge. Fuck.

"How long have I been dead, then?" Her voice pulls me out of my thoughts.

"Ah, if it was 1915? Over a hundred years — no, wait — more like a hundred and ten."

"Are there others like me?" she asks, her voice small. She holds up one translucent hand. "Like this, now that the Unravelling has occurred?"

I've never been this close to her before. I lift my hand, until our fingers should be touching, but I feel nothing. When I look, the pads of her fingers are disappearing into mine. Damn. I'd been hoping she was a little more solid.

"Nah," I say, pulling my hand away, staring at my fingers for a moment. "You're the only real ghost I've ever heard of."

In the daylight, without Rose following me with her silent, ghost footsteps, the house next door just seems sad. I don't quite understand how a house can be this old , and yet still have items in it from when she was alive, but then again, Rose is a literal ghost, so I suppose anything goes these days.

I've got plenty of time on my hands between small gigs, so I went to the hardware store this morning and grabbed a bunch of budget cleaning supplies and plastic sheets to cover the broken window panes. The way Rose's face lit up when I told her my plans made sweeping up all the gross mouse droppings and scrubbing the floors worth it.

Now that it's done and the windows have been patched up, I find myself lingering in the empty house, thinking about what life must have been like when she was alive. It's surprisingly easy to imagine her going about her day in that old-fashioned outfit of hers, playing the piano for her younger sisters, gardening alongside her father, and reading about the war in the newspaper.

I know I'm a little bit obsessed with her, and it's a problem.

She's a fucking ghost, but I can't shake the feeling that she's meant to be so much more.