I can’t remember how long I’ve been a ghost. The question drifts through me like smoke, never quite settling. It could have been years. It could have been yesterday. Time, here, is a thing without edges. My memory is fog—thick, damp, and rolling, the kind that swallows landmarks and leaves you standing still, unsure whether you’ve moved at all.

What I do know, with a certainty that feels bone-deep, is that this is my house.

I’m standing in the living room, the familiar weight of the space pressing around me. The overstuffed sofa still sags slightly in the middle, the way it always did after family movie nights. The carpet bears the faint outline where the coffee table once sat before Mary insisted we rearrange. I drift toward the bay windows and look out at the backyard, and my breath—if I still have breath—catches.

The garden is alive.

Sunlight spills over the yard like honey, warming everything it touches. Flowerbeds blaze with yellow marigolds, orange zinnias, and deep red tulips, all arranged just the way Mary liked them, with an eye for balance and bursts of cheerful chaos. Bees hover lazily. Leaves tremble in a soft breeze. It’s the kind of afternoon that makes you grateful just to be standing in it.

Behind me, the quiet is broken by the soft rustle of pages turning.

Mary sits in the old armchair near the lamp, her legs tucked beneath her, a paperback open in her lap. Her hair falls over one eye, and she absently tucks it back, the way she always did when she was absorbed in a story. The corners of her mouth curve upward. She must be nearing the end of the book. Romance novels did that to her—happy endings, no matter how hard-won.

On the rug, Frankie is on his knees, tongue caught between his teeth as he stacks Lego bricks into a sprawling city. Towers lean dangerously, roads zigzag nowhere. He hums to himself, a low, content sound. Nearby, Amy sits cross-legged with a picture book, thick pages turned slowly by careful fingers. Every so often, she giggles at an illustration only she seems to understand.

My chest tightens with a love so sharp it almost hurts.

“Daddy loves you, my little ones!” I shout, my voice echoing strangely in my own ears.

They don’t look up. They don’t even pause.

Of course they can’t hear me. I’m a spirit. I’ve known that much for a while now, even if the rest slips through my grasp.

I step closer to Mary, careful, reverent. I smile down at her, memorizing the way the light catches in her eyes, the faint crease between her brows.

“And I love you most of all, my sweetheart,” I whisper.

Nothing. No shiver of recognition. No smile meant for me.

I reach out, desperate to touch her shoulder, to feel warmth, fabric, life. My hand passes through her as if she’s made of mist, leaving a cold emptiness behind. The sensation sends a ripple of unease through me.

What happened?

I search my mind, pushing against the fog. Images rise and dissolve before I can grasp them. Fire? Smoke? Sirens? No, that doesn’t feel right. A gunshot? A robbery gone wrong? My heart doesn’t race at the thought. None of it fits.

I look down at myself. I’m wearing my light blue golf shirt, the one Mary bought me for Father’s Day. Casual pants. Brown loafers, slightly scuffed at the toes. This isn’t the clothing of someone who died violently. Isn’t it?

Confusion gnaws at me.

I turn my attention back to the children. Do they miss me? How long has it been since I stood in this room, solid and alive, scooping them up, laughing as they squealed? Days? Weeks? Years?

Why can’t I remember?

I want to remember. I think I do. I need to know what separated me from them, what cast me into this strange half-existence between the living world and whatever lies beyond.

The fog reminds me of another morning, long ago. I had stepped out the front door, coffee in hand, only to be swallowed by a sudden fog bank. I couldn’t see the mailbox, couldn’t hear traffic or neighbors. For a moment, it felt as though my house and family had been lifted from Earth and dropped onto some distant planet. Then the sun rose, burning the fog away, and the world snapped back into place.

This feels like that—except the fog won’t lift.

The children’s laughter pulls me back. Frankie knocks over one of his towers, groaning dramatically. Amy laughs, pointing. My heart aches.

I want to run to them. I want to grab them both in a bear hug, lift them into the air, and spin them around until they shriek with delight. I want to tell them, again and again, “Daddy loves you.”

But I can’t.

And I can’t feel the warmth of Mary beside me in bed at night. I can’t hear her sleepy murmurs or feel her hand find mine in the dark. Those were small things, taken for granted. Now they are gone, and the absence is unbearable.

I lower my head. A heavy sigh escapes me, though I don’t know where it comes from. I close my eyes, surrendering to the ache, to the fog.

Then—

Hands.

Two pairs of them, firm and solid, gripping my arms just above the elbows.

I gasp and jerk back. How is this possible? I’m a ghost.

“Easy now,” a deep voice says.

I open my eyes. Two large men stand on either side of me, dressed in dark blue uniforms and caps. Their faces are calm, practiced. Behind them stands a third man in white, a lab coat hanging neatly from his shoulders.

“Mr. Watkins,” the man in white says gently, “don’t get upset.”

I stare at them, panic surging. “Who are you? How can you touch me?”

He steps closer, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Don’t you remember me? I’m Doctor Stone. You’ve been at Sunny View for two years now. You were doing so well. We thought you were ready for a little freedom today, out on the front lawn. But it looks like we need to go back.”

I pull against the men’s grips. “Sunny View? No, this is my house. I’m a ghost.” I point wildly toward the living room. “What about them? My wife and kids. Can they see you?”

The room goes quiet. Uncomfortably quiet.

Doctor Stone’s expression softens, but there is something heavy behind his eyes.

“There’s no one there,” he says quietly. “A drunk driver killed your family.”

The words hit like a blow.

“At their funeral,” he continues, voice steady, “you broke. Your reality seeped into the dirt at your feet that day.”

“No,” I shout. “You’re wrong. They’re right there. Look. The garden, the flowers—”

“Mr. Watkins,” he says softly, “it’s February. There are no flowers. There’s no garden. Your wife and children aren’t here. They’re creations of your mind. You’ve regressed.”

Pain explodes in my head. The living room flickers, colors draining away. The garden outside the bay window withers, greens turning gray. The sunlight dies. The laughter vanishes.

I see it now. Bare trees. Dead grass. Silence.

The fog lifts, and with it comes the truth—sharp, cruel, undeniable.

I scream, but the sound is swallowed by darkness.

As they guide me away, back into the cold, colorless world, one thought clings to me like a lifeline.

I prefer being back in the mist.

Because in the fog, my family is still alive.