Noun; a Portuguese, untranslatable word romanticizing nostalgia in its purest form. This beautiful feeling captures the yearning for someone or something that you love, which is now lost. It is a melancholic longing.


It is their voices Maka hears first.

They start the Halloween she turns three, hushed voices belonging to no one flitting from one corner of her room to the other and back again, visiting her right after Mama and Papa tuck her into bed for the night.

She sits up in her bed and listens attentively the first night they arrive, hands clasped loosely against her teddy bear as her eyes light from one end of the room to the other. The voices are a constellation of garbled sound and invisible movement, ringing against her room's walls, but possess a mystery far too intriguing for her to be terrified. For the rest of the night, she tries to catch hold of the voices' words but there is a muffled and hazy quality to the them, as if they're coming from another world.

The next night Maka tries talking to the voices, heart thrumming nervously as she greets the empty air in front of her with a cautious hello. There is a collective pause in the whispers and then a sudden flood of eager babbling above her head. The excitement in the voices pulls a delighted laugh from Maka, chasing any wariness away, and she scrambles to her feet, wobbling on the mattress as she walks in a circle and scours the ceiling curiously, seeing nothing. Like last night, the same fog from the previous night smears the voices' words into an indistinguishable mess of incoherent notes, pitched high and low, and eventually the voices peter out into disappointed nothingness.

"Don't worry," she declares, leaping off the bed. "I'll find you!"

An hour later, her parents open her bedroom door to find her searching and rummaging through her closet. It is the first of many nights where they catch her out of bed "looking for the whispers," and Maka only stops when they threaten to take away her bed and put her back in her crib. For weeks, she talks to the voices every night and while they answer every time, whatever separates her and the voices clouds and blurs their words so she can never make out what they're saying.

She slows and stops her attempts to communicate as the months pass and simply listens to the whispers-they carry a soft shushing quality that sings her to sleep like a lullaby, wrapping her in a cocoon of song, and soon listening to the voices is the only way she can fall asleep.

The shadows make their appearance exactly one year after the voices. Maka is nearly asleep when she hears her windows rattling and sits up to see shadows squeezing their way into her room. They halt when she intakes sharply but sudden dread oozing down her back keeps her from calling out to them like she did with the voices.

She screws her eyes shut when one of the shadows darts across the ceiling and comes to a stop on the wall right above her head. There is weight to the shadow-its presence thickens the air above her and leeches the warmth from the room. A low and guttural noise comes from the shadow in slow, even sweeps, and its rasp slithers against her skin, like it is its own monster. She nearly twitches but fear keeps her prone on the bed. Besides her, the voices have gathered, nearly silent save for muted bubbles of whispers, as if they don't want to be heard either, and she silently wills for them not to leave her.

The shadow stays perched above her for another long moment before creeping away with a sound that's like nails scratching on glass. Maka dares to peek out a few minutes later, and through slitted eyes she watches as the shadows make their home on her room's walls and ceiling and scuttle into her closet when morning breaks hours later.

When Mama asks her why she looks so tired at breakfast, she tells her about the shadows and what they did. Her mama tries to explain that they were only nightmares and she only thought they were real, but when Maka insists, her papa is the one to relent, leaning forward to ruffle her hair. "When we're at the store, how about I get you a brand-new flashlight?"


Maka doesn't protest against him touching her hair like she usually does; she pauses and remembers the way the shadows had ran away from the sunlight. Then she nods.

That night, the number of shadows in her room doubles and the room is plunged into an unnatural and pitch darkness, save for the moonlight coming in through her windows. Maka doesn't use the flashlight nor does she call for her parents. The small beam of light can't keep all the shadows at bay at once and she doesn't want to find out what the shadows will do if they discover she is awake.

Clutching the handle of her flashlight so tightly her fingers start to ache, she tries to focus on the voices, which are huddled next to her, fails terribly and watches the shadows instead. She figures out that the shadows are blind from the way they bump into each other repeatedly and how they don't pay her any attention unless she makes a noise. For the rest of the night, she stays still as a statue underneath her Minnie Mouse bedsheets.

In the nights that follow, Maka resolves to keep her blankets hoisted high over her head and her eyes snap shut as soon as her papa closes the door, but sometimes curiosity overtakes her fear and she opens her eyes just enough to see the shadows. They don't do much but writhe in the patches of moonlight that stream through her window, which doesn't seem to have the same effect on them that sunlight has. As they flicker and undulate across the walls and ceiling, the same noise that came from the shadow that inspected her the first night emanates from them all. It grates against her ears and digs underneath her skin like a nightmare brought to life, stalking her into her dreams and drowning out even the whispers.

Every morning she tells her parents about the shadows but they only repeat the same talk about nightmares or how her overactive imagination is getting the best of her and buy her a nightlight to go along with the flashlight. While they always hear her out when Maka comes running in their bedroom with the same stories, as more and more time goes by, the patience in their voices grows thin and their replies get shorter. So when she gets tired of being afraid after close to a year of living with the shadows, Maka decides to take matters into her own hand and plucks up the courage one night and asks them to leave.

Since they first arrived, the shadows stop moving, their hissing comes to a gradual stop and Maka realizes she has made a mistake. Although none of the shadows can see, nor have anything resembling a face, she knows they're staring at her, and that there is no kindness in their scrutiny.

For a moment, the silence persists and the trance between her and the shadows holds and then they begin peeling from the walls and dropping from the ceiling.

A shriek rips from Maka's throat. Seconds like eternities pass in the time it takes for her to grab her flashlight from underneath her pillow but neither her mama or papa come running. She manages to turn on her flashlight but the light does nothing except prompt an enraged buzzing from the shadows closest to her, drawing them directly to her bed.

Frantically, she hauls her covers over herself and shoves her head under her pillow, a throbbing numbness pulsing in her fingertips and her heartbeat roaring in her ears. The buzzing climbs to a peak as the air around Maka abruptly turns frigid and most of her blankets are yanked away with ease. Heavy claws paw for her through the sheets and she lurches away and accidentally hurls herself off the bed.

Her flashlight is torn out of her grasp as she lands hard on the ground and skitters across the floor. The sound scatters the shadows, which have swarmed her bed, and she seizes the chance to roll back to the bed, jamming herself in the tiny space between her bed and the floor.

Maka's breaths come out shaky and shallow as she watches the shadows pace angrily around her room, screeching furiously, and she struggles to silence them. She is safe if she is quiet, she tells herself, and she is so focused on not making any noise at all that it's not until she has stopped trembling that she realizes the darkness underneath the bed is breathing in time with her.

She screams as something raw and decaying wraps around her ankle; she kicks hard, openly sobbing as she crawls away, but the shadow is much stronger than she is, and it drags her halfway back under the bed again. Her fingers scrabble to find anything she can hold onto. lace around her bedpost, but one pull from the shadow nearly breaks her grip.

Then as suddenly as it started, the shadow's attack on Maka stops, and the hand wrapped around her ankle disappears. But even though silence descends upon the room and the air lightens and warms, Maka stays on the floor, face buried in her elbow.

"It's over, dear."

Shock makes her head lift, and an old lady crouched in front of her gazes down at Maka. She is short and plump with a cheerful face and dimples that deepen as her smile widens. Her voice reminds Maka of her grandma. "You're safe now."

Without answering, Maka inches out from underneath the bed and away from the old lady, brushing her tears from her face. The woman's voice rings familiar as one of the voices before the shadows arrived but she is wary, eyes moving up and down her face. The old lady doesn't reprimand her for being rude but continues to look at her kindly. "I was wondering when you would be able to see me."

She pulls her attention from the bluish-grey tint marring the woman's skin and stands up. When Black Star's dog got hit by a car a few months ago, her mama had explained death to her and what it meant. Maka's gaze moves back to the old woman's face. "You're dead."

"Yes." Moonlight ripples through the old lady like water as she rises and nods once. Her neck wobbles strangely, like a top. "Does that scare you?"

Maka hesitates. Confusion knots her mind with a million questions, but talking to a dead old lady isn't half as terrifying as what just happened. "I don't think so," she says finally. One of her more urgent questions bubbles to her lips. "Are the shadows also dead?"

"They are." The old woman's face tightens. "But very wrong. They don't belong here."

Maka has no idea what she means by that but she nods, toes curling as she peers around the old lady. "And they're not coming back?"

The woman's voice becomes reassuring again. "So long as we're here, we won't let them come back."

"We?" Maka eyes her curiously. "What's your name?"

At this, the old woman steps back. "I am Mrs. Horschenblott." She gestures behind herself, where a group of translucent people wink into existence, and looks back to Maka. "We've all been waiting to meet you, dear."

A girl clutching another ghost's hand waves shyly and several of the other ghosts smile broadly at Maka.

She only wavers for a moment before waving back. The dead can be kind too, she decides.


It doesn't take long for Maka to grow accustomed to the six ghosts living in her home-Mrs. Horschenblott and Eliza, the only child in the group, become her favorites and keep her company as she does her homework, and follow her outside when she goes to play. Ernest, a grumpy old man with glasses that remain permanently crooked no matter how many times he adjusts them, prefers to keep to himself in the garden in the backyard, although he gives Maka tips when she is learning to ride her bike without training wheels. April and Henry, a middle-aged couple who died together in a car accident, usually wander around the house, but always join Maka and the others for board game night. The last of the group, a severe-looking woman who only calls herself the Librarian and never speaks much, takes up residence in her mother's study, but lives up to her name and occasionally appears in Maka's room to talk to her about books she thinks she would like.

After Maka's encounter with the shadows, ghosts start turning up everywhere, appearing when she least expects it-in the line at the grocery store, at the movie theater, or in the bathroom of McDonald's.

Outside of her new housemates, ghosts are transient creatures and Maka never sees one more than once. Some ghosts are as transparent as the ones who live in her house, while others look so much like a living person that Maka doesn't realize they're dead until they disappear in front of her or walk through her. Sometimes, her mother or father catch Maka when she's talking with one of her ghosts, but they always assume it's one of her imaginary friends, and her experience with the shadows has taught her better than to try to tell the truth.

Then there are the ghosts where it's not only obvious they're dead but how they died; she keeps her distance from the people with their insides hanging out of gaping stomach wounds, or who have been so badly burned that half of their face resembles raw hamburger meat.

They're not malevolent like the shadows-none of the ghosts are-but while she doesn't mind Mrs. Horschenblott's quivering neck, at five years old, Maka can't keep the fear or revulsion that curls in the pit of her gut from being reflected in her face whenever she encounters ghosts with overt death wounds. It doesn't mesh well with the fact that the vast majority of ghosts hate being reminded they are dead or how they died, so she learns to school her face into one of calm and composure as she gets older, no matter what kind of ghost she sees.

Sometimes she sees things like the shadows, but it's always during the day and at a distance. She is careful to avoid going into dark spaces and to never acknowledge the things crawling in the darkness. At home, her ghosts keep her safe and she begins to sleep soundly again.

In the beginning, it's hard to strike up a conversation with unfamiliar ghosts; an electric kind of nervousness always threatens to seal her throat before she says hello, but after the first few times, Maka discovers ghosts are eager to tell their stories. They talk to her like a drowning person claws for air, and although she often does not understand what they are talking about, she nods and lets them speak until their voice dwindles into silence.

When she is seven, Maka begins seeing dead people that are neither ghosts nor shadows; Mrs. Horschenblott, who is the most knowledgeable about ghosts and related things, warns her about them ahead of time, calling them replays, because they are fragments of people's last moments played daily at the time of their death.

Still, nothing prepares Maka for the piercing scream that shakes her from her sleep at one in the morning. She jerks awake and is immediately soothed by Mrs. Horschenblott and Eliza.

"Only a replay," the old lady hums, fingers going through Maka as she pats her hand.

"Replay?" Maka repeats groggily as she rubs her eyes, squinting at the ceiling where the screams are coming from the attic. She doesn't bother calling for her parents-her father has been out for hours and her mother is holed up in her study. "Can you make it stop?"

"I wish," Eliza sighs as she settles besides Maka. "But we're stuck with her for the next hour. And again tomorrow night. And the next night. And then-"

"I think I get it." Maka falls back against the bed and stuffs her head underneath her pillow, voice coming out muffled as she speaks. "Has she always been here?"

"Yes," Mrs. Horschenblott answers sympathetically. "I was hoping you wouldn't be able to see them for a while, dear."

"Me too."

In the morning, Maka talks her mother into buying her earplugs.

Not a day passes where Maka doesn't run into a ghost, but she welcomes their stories, especially as her parents' bickering starts to spark into bigger and bigger fights. She spends hours roaming the park by her house with Eliza and Mrs. Horschenblott looking for ghosts to talk with. But where she once thrilled in the excitement with which ghosts talk to her, she now sees something irreversibly lonely about the way every ghost lays their soul bare as soon as she acknowledges their existence, as if she can fix everything in them that's broken. It's much larger than anything she can handle, but Maka tries anyways. However, what the majority of ghosts ask of her when she offers her help is too much for an eight year old to take on. While the most they can do is yell and rage at her, it is the resigned defeat on their faces before they disappear that eats away at her heart.

She breaks one day after a particularly bad refusal, holding in her tears until she is in her room. Mrs. Horschenblott, Eliza, and even Ernest try to comfort her. However, it is the Librarian's words that stops her tears.

The woman speaks after the rest of the ghosts leave at Maka's request. "Do you see any of us asking you for favors?"

Maka sits up startled, unaware the ghost had entered the room. "What?"

"Death is a personal journey as well as what they left undone," the ghost continues, stepping away from the far corner of her room. "You are not required to carry that burden for them."

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Maka begins to argue, "But if I can help-"

"And what good will it do if you are the one that ends up ruined in the process?" she interrupts. The Librarian's voice becomes the most gentle it has been in the years Maka's known the ghost. "You already do more than enough by talking to them. Trust me when I say listening is the best thing you will ever do for a ghost."

Maka opens her mouth to answer, but the ghost disappears through the floor before she can say anything.

She spends the rest of the afternoon thinking about the Librarian's words. That night, she digs up a blank journal and begins filling it with the names and details of every single ghost she can summon to memory. If the most she can do is to fill their emptiness is through listening, then she will make sure they are never forgotten, even if she's the only one who remembers.

Within the journal, Maka also begins compiling everything she has learned about ghosts since she began seeing them and chronicles her observations of the replays she comes across. She writes as much as she can recall of her encounter with the shadows, which, she's since learned from Mrs. Horschenblott, are actually poltergeists.

By the time she turns eleven, she is on her fifth journal. It's a permanent accessory, whether it's in her hand or her bag, and in the short periods of peace between their arguments, her parents take notice of her constant writing and the way she lights up at seemingly nothing. Their curiosity is one of the few things that unite them these days, and from time to time, her mother asks about what Maka writes in her journal, and Maka catches her father looking over her shoulder while she's writing once.

Although Maka is no longer at the age where she thinks it only takes her word to be believed, it still takes everything to resist the urge to tell her parents she can talk to ghosts. There are moments the words flutter on her tongue, but she knows how they will react, and she refuses to turn into one of the reasons pushing them apart.

It doesn't stop her from broaching the topic with Black Star though. She asks him if he believes in ghosts one day while they're hanging from the monkey bars at recess, and he scoffs so hard he chokes on his spit.

"Ghosts are fairy tales," Black Star declares once he stops coughing. He drops down from the bars with an exaggerated flourish and lands next to Tsubaki, their other friend. "People only think they exist."

Maka watches as Eliza sticks up two fingers behind Black Star's head. She's slightly disappointed by his answer, but not surprised-it's close to what she would have thought if she couldn't see ghosts.

"They could be real," Tsubaki contradicts quietly. Even though she's two years older, she prefers hanging out with the pair more than her classmates. She loops the end of her braid around her finger. "The world is a lot bigger than you know."

"I only believe in what I can see." Black Star emphasizes his point by plopping his hands on his hips and puffing out his chest.

Tsubaki doesn't exhibit her usual patience for once. "Then what does that say about your brain?"

Maka laughs along with her at Black Star's befuddled expression, but she hears the bite in Tsubaki's voice-with a terminally ill older brother in and out of the hospital, she knows death is more often on Tsubaki's mind than it is not, and regrets bringing up ghosts in the first place. Even though she knows Tsubaki would be the one to believe Maka about talking to ghosts, raising the hope that she might be able to talk to her brother after he dies is something Maka can't bring herself to do.

Shortly after that, Maka comes home after school to find her parents waiting for her at the kitchen table with her journals laid out in front of them. Although stories and excuses immediately spring to her lips, she says nothing-she's no longer at the age where tales of imaginary friends will be accepted.

It's her father who starts the conversation. He's home early for once and he gestures to the notebooks, his smile strained and not quite making it to his eyes. "You've got a creative imagination, sweetie."

"I don't think it's just imagination." Maka's mother rises from the table and crosses her arms. She always looks like she's in motion even when she's standing still. Her gaze digs into Maka. "Do you believe all of this?"

Her father stands too. "Of course she doesn't."

"Have you read what she's written?"

"Yes, and they're only stor-"

"No."

Maka's heart begins hammering even faster as both of her parents' eyes snap to her. She swallows nervously-she'd spoken mostly to prevent another fight and partly due to frustration of being talked about as if she wasn't there, but even she's surprised by the heady taste of courage on her tongue.

"I-I believe it," she says, looking from her father to her mother. "I can see them. I can see ghosts."

She takes a step forward. "I can see ghosts," she repeats.

Silence.

Her mother speaks first but she has nothing to say about Maka's confession. She throws a dirty look at Maka's father. "Shows how well you know your daughter if you can't even tell when she's serious."

She sweeps from the room without another word.

Maka stares at the floor after she leaves, feeling something in her heart quietly break. She has seen enough of dead things to know that whatever holds her parents together is dying.

Neither she nor her father speak for a moment, and then he steps forward. He kneels on one knee and, though she's nearly twelve, he still is slightly taller than her, even crouched down.

He looks Maka straight in the eyes. "Do you believe in what you're saying?"

Nodding, she expects him to try to explain why she's wrong but instead he just pats her reassuringly on the shoulder. "All right."

He straightens and as he rises, he says, "Then it's time to call in the professionals."

She catches his hand as he starts to move away. "Do you really believe me, Papa?" The name slips out on instinct-she's long since outgrown using it, leaving it behind in the days when she knew what a family felt like, but today she feels very small.

His eyes soften. "You know I do, kiddo." He bends back down to look at her face to face, ruffling her hair. "We're going to figure this out together, okay?"

Maka's throat is locked tight by years of stories and emotions she's had to keep silent so she merely nods again, but when her papa puts his arms around her, she leans in for a long time.


It's the loud splutter of an engine backfiring instead of the door bell ringing that announces the arrival of the Debunking Wraiths and Mysteries Analysts, a.k.a. the DWMA.

Maka jumps up from where she sits perched on the couch. Her father yells from somewhere in the back of the house that he'll be right there; her mother had chosen to go out, refusing to participate in today's activities. The rejection had stung, but Maka is filled with too much with anxious excitement to mind much of anything; she starts heading towards the front door before abruptly turning back to the living room, where she asked the ghosts to gather.

"It's going to be fine, dear," Mrs. Horschenblott says soothingly.

April nods. "We'll be with you every step of the way."

"And it'll be fun to talk other people." Eliza floats up a few inches from the couch. "Mess with them too."

"That's only if these people are the real deal," Ernest tacks on. "They could be quacks for all we know."

"You should go answer the door," the Librarian interrupts. She's the only one who isn't sitting on the couch or a chair, preferring to stand by the window. "They're waiting."

"Right." Maka spins back around. Nervous energy erupts in her stomach in the form of a million butterflies and they all flutter riotously, swelling to a nauseating peak as she unlocks the front door and pulls it open.

Two women and a man stand before the doorway. The woman donned in an all-black business suit sports a severe bob and holds a briefcase, looking more like lawyer than a psychic, although there is something unnaturally sharp-eyed in the way she gazes at Maka. Meanwhile the man on her right looks like he overshot the role-his expression reminds her of a predator who hasn't eaten in days, tattered lab coat riddled with uneven and jagged stitches that mirror the scars crisscrossing his face.

Only the woman on the left looks like what she imagined when her father said he was bringing in professional ghost hunters. An eyepatch with a strange symbol on it covers up her left eye; her hair shines flaxen even in the weak autumn sunlight and in her aura radiates something otherworldly.

"We're part of the DWMA's Spirit and Paranormal Activity Resource Team of Investigation," the woman with the eyepatch says brightly after an awkward pause. "Or SPARTOI, for short. I'm Marie, this is Azusa and this is Dr. Stein."

In a dry voice, the man adds, "I'm not that kind of doctor though."

The woman called Azusa sighs. "Do you always feel the need to say that?"

"I would find it criminal if I didn't."

Maka is still fixed on what Marie said. "So there are more people than just you three?" she asks curiously.

Azusa glances over at Marie before she answers. "Yes, there are a few more."

"Someone else was meant to come," Stein says. "But after he called out of the blue, I couldn't resist checking on how my old roommate Spirit was doing."

Maka blinks. "You know my father?"

There's a creak and rustle as her father appears besides her and Stein comments, "I'm slightly hurt you haven't told your daughter about our friendship, Spirit."

"It was a very old friendship," he replies, placing a hand on Maka's shoulder. "That doesn't have much relevance to now." There's a fidgety edge to his voice and he doesn't quite meet Stein's eye. "You don't look like you've changed much."

"No, just more scars," Stein agrees breezily.

"If you want to have a social visit on your own time, so be it," Azusa interrupts. "But not on mine."

"What Azusa means is that we're ready to start the walk-through of the house now," Marie corrects hastily.

Stein speaks as the three step into the house. "Spirit mentioned you kept journals over the phone, is that true?"

When Maka nods, he says, "I would like to read through them."

"I'll go find them," Spirit chimes in eagerly, leaving before anyone can say anything else.

Maka's heart erupts in her chest as she leads the three to the living room but she refuses to let her nerves take control and clasps her hands together to keep them from shaking. However, she can't hide the disappointment that grips her in an icy embrace when she looks from the ghosts standing in front of the four of them to the investigators' unchanged expressions.

From next to Mrs. Horschenblott, Ernest hisses, "I told you they were quacks, we're standing right in front of them and they can't even see us."

She opens her mouth but before Maka can talk, Marie says, "I ask that you not tell me anything about what you've seen, because it may influence our investigation."

Anger flicks on like a reflex, but uncertainty chokes the accusation that leaps to her lips-it had taken her a year to be able to see her ghosts, after all, so she nods reluctantly. Her hopes pop back up when she sees Azusa reach into her briefcase but she is let down when the woman only withdraws a pen and notebook.

Her father returns, carrying her journals. He hands them to Stein and steps back next to Maka. "We'll wait here while you do your, er, investigation."

Maka speaks up. "Can I go with you?" She looks to Marie. "I promise I won't give anything away."

"She can walk with me," Stein breaks in pleasantly. He has Maka's topmost journal open, eyes scanning the page with a clinical disinterest. "We'll trail a room or two behind you two while we chat."

He turns to her father. "Would you care to join us, Spirit?"

"Ah, I-" His hands flutter, throat bobbing up and down as he swallows. "I think I'll wait here, wouldn't want to get in your way."

The half-smile Stein wears deepens slightly at Spirit's reaction but his voice remains monotone. "However you want."

They begin in the kitchen, where Eliza lounges a few feet above the counter. Again, Maka watches Azusa and Marie for their reaction and again, their faces don't change, gazes gliding over Eliza as if she weren't there.

She and Stein split off from the psychics when they head into the hallway of the ground floor. Maka trails behind him at first but eventually curiosity gets the best of her and she falls into step with him. "You don't see ghosts like the other two?"

"No," Stein replies as he continues to flip through her journals. "I'm more of a knowledge collector."

It's not an answer she expects. "Knowledge for what?"

"Experiments."

She waits for him to elaborate and when he doesn't she asks, "Are they what gave you the scars?"

Stein doesn't answer right away. "It wasn't the experiments." He pauses. "It was the many accidents that went along with them. So I suppose that would also make me a scientist."

Maka's brow furrows as they head upstairs and turn down a hallway. "What kind of experiments do you do?"

Chuckling, he shakes his head. "I don't think your father would be pleased with me if I told you that."

"You don't look like you'd be too bothered by that," she points out.

Stein raises his head and fixes Maka with a half-amused stare before saying, "Maybe not, but my boss would be bothered."

"Why?"

"So many questions." He returns his gaze to the journal he was reading. "I think it's my turn to ask a few questions. For example, when did you start seeing ghosts?"

"Um-" Maka tugs on the end of her pigtail as she thinks. "I don't know. For as long as I could remember. Although they were just voices in the beginning."

"Yes, I remember you noting that." He taps the journal. "Where are their obituaries?"

"I-" Her words tangle on her tongue. "What?"

"Their obituaries," Stein repeats. "Any sign that these ghosts existed in any place outside of your head."

Heat spreads across Maka's face and she levels the glare she learned from her mother at him. "Are you calling me crazy?"

"Not at all," he says. "I merely think you need better evidence to prove what you're saying in these journals is true."

She frowns at the point he makes. "So does that mean you believe me?"

"I neither believe or disbelieve you," Stein replies. "All hypotheses are valid at the outset of every experiment, but require thorough investigation before anything close to belief can be attained."

Everything that comes out of the doctor's mouth is knotted with questions rather than answers-Maka now can see why her father had shrunk away from joining but she refuses to be intimidated. "Then why are you here?" she challenges. "You can't see ghosts and I'm sure Azusa or Marie could ask me these questions."

Stein pauses midway on the stairs on their way back to the first floor. "I said I'm a knowledge collector," he says, still staring down at the journals. "And yes, I also said I don't see ghosts." His eyes flick over to her face, glasses flashing. "But that doesn't mean I can't see things that most others aren't able to see."

A piercing feeling suddenly writhes beneath Maka's skin and she fidgets uncomfortably. She longs to leave but she refuses to be the one who breaks eye contact first.

Stein straightens after a beat later, chuckling a second time. "You would be a good mind to have in my lab," he says, starting to walk down the stairs again.

Maka doesn't follow. "What do you see then?"

The scientist stops again but he doesn't turn around, twisting his head enough to glance at Maka out of the corner of one eye. "I've already told you," he answers. "Think about it."

He leaves her there, brows knitted together as Maka scours through their conversation for several moments before filing his answer away to puzzle out later.

Marie and Azusa are waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs along with Stein and her father; the ghosts are gathered there as well but like before, neither of the psychics appear to notice them.

"Okay," Azusa announces after a beat of shared silence. "We'll need a few minutes to confer before talking."

"Perfect!" Spirit grabs Maka's hand before she can question what Azusa meant and pulls her into the living room, ghosts trailing after her. She chooses not to protest and takes a seat on the couch with him, looking discreetly to the ghosts.

They all wear somber expressions. Mrs. Horschenblott shakes her head in reply to her unasked question while Henry says, "We tried talking to them but they couldn't hear us."

"A bunch of phonies," Ernest grumbles.

Maka's heart sinks in her chest but a quiet acceptance dulls the sting of disappointment-she'd known the moment Marie and Azusa had failed to see the ghosts the first time. She swallows a sigh and grits her teeth instead. Although everything about the investigation was fake, Stein's point with her not having the evidence to prove she was telling the truth wasn't wrong, but no matter what it took, she would find it.

A squeeze around her fingers brings her back to the living room, and she looks up at her papa, still holding her hand. He had his doubts, of that she was sure, but he believed in her despite them and that was enough. Letting out a tiny breath, she taps the floor with her feet in a mindless rhythm and waits for the investigators to return.

Maka shivers as a cold draft abruptly sweeps through the room, chill sinking into her skin.

Her papa notices. "You feel that too?" He stands, rubbing his arms. "This house is too old. I'll be right back."

Maka leans back into the couch as he leaves the room and stares up at the ceiling, continuing to tap her feet against the floor. A flicker of a whisper grazes against her ears and she glances towards the ghosts. "Did you say something?"

They stare blankly at her but before anyone can answer, the investigators re-enter the living room, closely followed by Spirit. Both Marie and Azusa hang back and speak to him in low voices but that doesn't stop Maka from having a good idea of what they're telling him.

Stein, on the other hand, heads over to her and hands over the journals. "Here." He begins to turn and then stops. His voice doesn't lose its monotone detachment but something keen gleams in his eyes as he glances back at Maka. "I think it would be wise of you to hold onto those."

It's as much of a sign he'll give that he believes her, and she nods, hugging the journals tightly to her chest. With a small nod in return, he turns from Maka and rejoins Marie and Azusa, who have finished talking with Spirit and are already heading to the door without a single look at her.

Maka watches from the window as the three leave, pile into the van and drive off, leaving clouds of smog and exhaust in their wake. She hears the creak of the front door as her papa closes it but doesn't move until he returns to the living room.

There's a worn crease in his brow and Spirit gives a tiny grunt as he sits down next to Maka, the smallest glimmer of silver glinting in his hair. She also notices the tiny lines beginning to crinkle at the corner of his eyes and mouth, slowly etching his age in his face.

Her nails bite into her palms and an icy feeling slices through Maka's veins-she has never noticed her papa's age before.

Spirit clears his throat, pulling her from her thoughts. "So," he begins, glancing over at Maka. "We need to talk."

"I spoke with Marie and Azusa." He shifts to look at her directly. "They're not ghosts." He hesitates before speaking again. "And I think you know that too."

Everything Maka was about to say crumples in her throat and for several moments, she sifts through her words to find something to say but the only thing that comes out of her mouth is a weak, "I thought you believed me."

"I do believe you," he says gently. "I just don't think that what you're seeing are ghosts."

"Then what else can they be?" Adrenaline clears her head and spurs her into action and she's on her feet now, talking rapidly before Spirit can answer. "They're real. I see them, I talk to them, they're real." She has to keep herself from pacing back and forth, clenching her hands. "Why would you call the DWMA if you didn't think they were real?"

"Because I wanted you to see they're not." He stands as well, drawing closer to Maka. "That they're no such things as ghosts."

Betrayal is softer than anger, but it hurts more. "So you're saying I made this up," she says flatly.

"No, of course not!" His hands flutter towards her, as if to touch her, but she steps back. Hurt flashes in his eyes, but his voice remains soothing. "But you're smart enough to know that what you're seeing isn't real."

"And if I don't, then I must be crazy, right?" She turns away from Spirit, unable to look at him or the ghosts. Anger leeches away the last of her shock and buffers the hurt welling in her chest-it's becoming clear to her why her mother says she can't trust her father's words.

"Maka-" A hand touches her shoulder but she shrugs it off.

She turns back around but she refuses to meet Spirit's eyes. "You only did this to make me feel better," she says quietly. "But you never believed me."

When Spirit attempts to touch her again, she leans away. She keeps her eyes fixed on the floor as she heads to her room. "I want to be left alone."

The ghosts follow her up the stairs but Maka doesn't speak until she closes the door. She's still not able look at any of them in the eye. Folding her arms across her chest, she repeats, "I just want to be left alone."

None of the ghosts argue with her, vanishing one by one. The last to leave are Mrs. Horschenblott and Eliza. They hesitate before the old woman tugs on Eliza's hand, and then they disappear together.

For many minutes afterwards, Maka stays rooted where she stands. Then she goes to her bed, lies down, and pulls her pillow over her head, listening to the empty silence.


The next day is Halloween. When Maka wakes up, she's hardly feeling better than yesterday-her mother had come in to talk as soon as she'd come home but knowing her mother didn't believe her had made her words more hollow than comforting.

With a disgruntled sigh, she rolls her blankets back over her head and tries to go back to sleep. The only thing she's grateful for is that Halloween takes place on the weekend this year, which means she doesn't have to endure going out to school and mistakenly start talking to a ghost on the playground.

She manages to fall back into a state of half-sleep and hovers on the edge of consciousness and dreaming until she's prodded back awake by the sharp feeling of sunlight poking at her face through the sheets. Rubbing her eyes, Maka sits up and looks around the room to find she's still alone.

It's not surprising-the ghosts have always been able to sense her mood better than anyone else-but she's still filled with regret at shutting them out. She swings her legs over the edge of the bed and searches for her slippers with her feet-once she's had something to eat, she'll go find them, make amends, and then they can figure out what to do together now that her confession to her parents has backfired horribly.

"It's not fair, is it?" a voice breathes against her ear as she wiggles her feet into her slippers.

Maka jumps to her feet. "Who's there?"

"A friend." The voice is high and small, like a child's, but much colder. It comes from the corner of the room now but its presence is only tangible by an unnatural heaviness in the air that presses down on Maka's mind like a weight.

She ignores the unease trickling down her back for the moment. "Then why don't you show yourself?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Maka spies something scurrying across the ceiling, but when she takes a better look, it's only a spider.

"I'm stuck in between," the voice sighs, back to her ear again, and it's like it's pushing past the ridges of her thoughts and squeezing into the crevasses in between. "I'm neither here nor there."

"You were there yesterday," she realizes. "In the living room."

"Yes," the ghost answers, an odd echo to its words stretching them out long after the voice stops talking. "I found you then but you didn't hear me."

"I'm sorry. I-" She hesitates. "I wasn't very receptive."

"I saw what happened." The voice moves around her in circles. "Such cruel deception on your father's part."

"He just wanted to help me," Maka says defensively. She's not sure why she speaks for her father when she thought just as much yesterday but she holds firm. "He didn't mean to hurt me."

"No, no, of course not," the ghost's voice agrees, curling up on her shoulder. "But he still hurt you."

"Well-" She struggles for a moment before exhaling loudly. "Yes, he did."

"I can help you with that," the ghost says.

She frowns. "How?"

"Pull me into this world," it answers. "If you anchor me here, then everyone will be able to see me and your parents will believe you."

Maka's heart leaps at the thought but caution holds her back from saying yes. There are many ways that the voice reminds her of the poltergeists and she proceeds with careful suspicion.

"But how can I help you?" she asks. "I can only see ghosts."

"There's something I need to ground myself here, something that I can't get on my own," the voice says, moving just in front of her face. "And since you can hear me, you can give it to me and then I'll do the rest."

It seems simple enough but still Maka wavers.

"You don't know the tremendous favor you'd be doing for me," the voice continues in a soft murmur. "It's been so long that I've been alone, that I've had a body, that I've forgotten what it means to be me."

Sympathy for the ghost swells in Maka's chest despite her doubts but she runs her tongue across her teeth before finally agreeing. "All right."

"Thank you." The voice surges close to her face again, thrumming with a glee that doesn't match its coldness. "You're too kind."

Maka masks the jittery discomfort the voice gives her by ducking around and heading towards her door. "Where is the thing you need exactly?"

"Oh, it's nearby," the ghost assures her. "It's in your basement."

"My basement?" She frowns and pauses, hand on the doorknob. "What's down there that you need?"

"There's no time to explain!" An angry impatience ripples through the voice but when the ghost speaks again, its voice is smooth and calm. "What I mean is if I start fading before we get what I need then I might never be able to return."

"Oh." The doorknob seems to vibrate under Maka's hand and she pulls it open. Her unease has turned into something close to foreboding but she's already agreed to help and she doesn't go back on promises. "Well, let's go then."

There's no sign of her parents or the ghosts as she makes her way downstairs. Maka muses this aloud and the voice supplies helpfully, "I saw your parents leave a little while ago. They didn't look happy."

"They never are lately," she replies, rolling her eyes, though guilt pricks beneath her skin as she wonders if she's the cause behind this particular unhappiness. She slows her step when they pass the kitchen, peeking inside for the ghosts and finding the room empty. "Where is everyone?"

"Somewhere outside?" The impatience in the ghost's voice returns. "I can meet them later."

"But maybe I should go get them," Maka suggests. She's eager not to be alone. "They might be able to help."

"I'm sure meeting them afterwards won't make much of a difference," the ghost snaps. "I can't can't stay in this dimension for much longer."

Maka gives in without another word. Her sympathy for the ghost is at odds with the ominous feeling growing in her stomach, but she tells herself she only feels wary because of her incident with the poltergeists. Even so, her footsteps falter for the smallest of moments when she opens the door, the musty darkness of the basement looming in front of her. Then she continues forward, tugging on the the cord connected to the light bulb hanging over the stairs.

The bulb refuses to flicker on but there is enough light from the hallway outside to illuminate her way. Maka proceeds slowly, keeping her hand wrapped tightly around the railing. At the corner of her vision, her shadow bounces up and down on the wall as she descends the stairs however when she's nearly at the bottom, she spots a second shadow next to hers but it's vanished by the time she turns her head to look at it directly.

Rubbing her eyes, Maka feels around in the air for the pull cord of the second light in the basement. The light is hardly better than the one above the stairs, lightbulb barely sputtering enough light for her to make out more than the shadowy outlines of the cabinets and boxes piled high in the basement.

Maka's footsteps echo hollowly as she moves between the lopsided stacks of boxes-the air is frigid in the basement, yet it clings to her skin like on a humid day. A small yelp falls from her lips as she nearly trips over the corner of a pile of boxes she didn't see.

The boxes waver dangerously as she regains her balance and she steadies them with a hand. "I need to go find a flashlight," she says aloud to the ghost.

"You won't be needing that," it answers.

There's an odd tone to the ghost's voice. Maka frowns. "Then how am I going to find what you need?"

"Oh, that's not a problem," the ghost says. "You already have it actually."

"I do?" she asks, bewildered. "What is it?"

"Give it some thought, it's very simple." The ghost's voice is in her ear now and again she feels something scraping against her mind but this time it moves deeper in her body like a worm tunneling in mud. "What do you have that I don't?"

Danger, danger, a voice in her head trills at her.

Whatever is in her mind is listening-Maka speaks quickly to keep from thinking any further. "A body?" she guesses, muscles tensing as she slides her gaze to the stairs. "But you're dead."

"Even more fundamental than that," the voice answers. The ghost's words rattle inside of her head. "Think about it."

"I'm sorry," Maka says carefully, nervous energy tensing the muscles in her legs as she measures her opening to run. "I really don't know."

"You see, I'm not very human anymore," the ghost says. "At all, actually." There is a sharpness to its voice that Maka can almost feel jabbing at her ears. "But I want to be."

Whatever that is digging in her mind releases its grip.

"I want to be," it repeats.

Maka swallows hard and rocks forward on the balls of her toes, poised to bolt.

Something else breathes inside of her. "That's why I need your soul."

She screams and breaks away, lurching towards the stairs. Her fingers brush against the railing just as an unseen force flings Maka into a column of boxes. Stars erupt in her vision as her head cracks against the wall and she lands in a crumpled heap on the ground.

The contents of the boxes rain down on Maka but she only feels the searing pain splitting her head in two, the sudden rumbling of the floor underneath her, and the sensation of something ripping away at something deep inside her body.

She blinks the stars away and forces her eyes open to find herself suddenly swimming in darkness, surrounded by a million writhing monsters ready to devour her.

In her chest, the feeling of being ripped apart intensifies into a single burning point. Maka chokes back the scream that springs to her tongue as she scrambles away on her knees, nails scrabbling against the darkness which has a strange fluid solidness to it.

Silence pounds like a drum against her ears. She's moving forward into nothingness and her temples throb with the paralyzing weight of the monsters' stares lying in the darkness. but doing nothing is impossible. The monsters stay still and silent, but when her fingers graze against something soft and leathery, the darkness itself ripples and shakes, knocking her into something very much alive.

Fear lights a fire in her lungs that leaves her breathing ragged and shallow as Maka clambers away and pushes herself to her feet. She spins in a circle, spying a thousand pairs of eyes gazing at her; bile burns in her throat as she comes to a stop and screws her eyes closed to keep from bending over and heaving.

She can't move now that she knows what's out there-terror encompasses her entire body and roots her in place. The soles of her feet begin to ache the longer Maka stands frozen in place and nothing happens. Whatever was clawing inside of her-she knows it's not a ghost or poltergeist by now-has stopped but she can tell by the growing heaviness of her body that it's still there, although she's not sure why it hasn't come after her again.

"Maka?"

Her eyes snap open.

Eliza stands in front of her, peering at her in alarm. "What's going on?" Her words are distant and full of static and she flickers in and out of the darkness like a dying flame. "One minute you're here and the next, you're not."

It takes every ounce of her willpower to force herself to stay still. "Something's here," Maka whispers rapidly. "I don't know what it is." Her voice inches higher despite herself, cracking. "I-I thought it was a ghost but it's not and now I'm trapped."

Eliza's eyes widen before she sets her jaw. "I'm going to get the others, I'll be right back."

She vanishes before Maka can say anything. Her heart thrums in her chest as she waits for what feels like an eternity passes before Eliza returns with the rest of the ghosts.

Mrs. Horschenblott steps forward, running a hand Maka can't feel across her cheek. "What happened? Are you alright?"

She opens her mouth to reply but the sound of the Librarian's voice cuts her off.

"There's no time for questions," the ghost says, striding up to the two. "You're in a demon's warpspace." For the first time, she sees something like fear on the Librarian's face. "It's in you."

It's not a question but Maka still nods. "It's trying to take my soul."

"It's failing," the ghost says. "But with the way it's draining your energy to get past your defenses, it won't be that way for long."

She swallows her questions, hands going clammy. "What do we do?"

The Librarian crouches down so she's face to face with Maka. "We're going to pull you out and when that happens, the demon will be forced out of your body." The ghost's voice turns harsh as she lowers her voice to a whisper. "You have to get out of the basement or the demon will strike again."

"Won't it just try again?"

"It won't," the ghost answers simply.

"But-"

"Listen carefully, Maka." The Librarian's eyes drill into hers. "You can never look back, no matter what you hear. Do you understand?"

"I-" she starts.

"Do you understand?"

She pauses and then she nods.

"All right." The ghosts straightens and turns her head towards to the others. They surround her in a circle with the Librarian standing in front of her. "Close your eyes."

Maka looks at the ghosts. A strange feeling comes over her like she's crossed some invisible tipping point. She wants to speak but she doesn't know what to say so instead she listens and closes her eyes.

The air around Maka thickens, as if frozen solid, but it's oddly warm and continues to grow warmer and warmer until the air is blazing hot and sweat is running down the sides of her face. Yet there is no pain, only an immense pressure that starts in the pit of her stomach and crawls into her chest. It's crushing in her lungs, stealing her breath, but still she feels nothing even as a lightheaded dizziness starts to sweep from her head to the rest of her body.

When the pressure travels to her throat, she's forced to inhale. Maka breathes in the dank air of her basement and her eyes fly open.

She's underneath the boxes again but from behind her the demon is shrieking, its pull yanking at her feet.

Its screams are muffled but screech like knives against glass. "Givemeyoursoulgivemeyoursoulgivemeyoursoulgivemeyoursoul."

For an instant, Maka's vision turns dark again and then she hears the ghosts' voice underneath the demon's wails. "Run, run, run. Don't look back."

Determination cuts away at her fear and she kicks and pushes the boxes out of her way, falling forward on her knees. Staggering to her feet, Maka stumbles forward; every step is like swimming in quicksand and she careens from one stack of boxes to another, creating a domino effect of falling boxes, but she doesn't stop to give the demon a chance to gain ground.

When she reaches the stairs, the demon's screeching intensifies into a soundless screaming. A deafening crack resounds and sends Maka tumbling into the stairs. Something warm and sticky drips down her arm as she grabs hold of the railing and hoists herself up, half-turning before remembering the Librarian's warning and spinning around again.

The stairs begin to shake when she reaches the top, nearly rocking Maka off-balance but she seizes the doorknob in time to keep from falling. From the bottom of the steps comes the same splintering noise and the demon's shrieks are no longer far-off, filling the basement with the sound of its rage.

Panic takes control and Maka slams into the door, shaking the handle, but it doesn't even twist in her hand.

"Open the door!" She pounds her hands against the panels of the door, driving her foot into the door repeatedly, but it stands firm, refusing to budge. Tears blur her vision as she continues to kick the door. "Help me!"

"Maka, is that you?"

She intakes sharply, raising her head. "Mama?"

Again her mother's voice sounds from deep within the basement. "Where are you? I can't see you."

It's a trap, her mind warns her but while her fingers stay wrapped around the handle, she loosens her grip ever so slightly.

"Maka, I can't see anything." Terror threads through her mother's voice and her resolve breaks.

She won't turn around, she promises herself. Letting her hands fall to her sides, she swallows hard and calls out, "Mama, how did you get here?"

"I don't know, your father and I were going outside and then it went dark." Maka listens carefully as her mother speaks but there is nothing strange or off about her voice. Franticness slips into her mother's voice. "I don't know where he is now."

The fear in her mother's voice trumps her own and Maka only hesitates for the tiniest of moments before she swerves around to plunge back down into the darkness.

"I have you now."

A spark of crimson illuminates the stairwell and she catches sight of glowing eyes, jagged teeth and rotting skin clinging to a shell of a broken corpse. Maka's scream is drowned out by the roar of embers emerging from the spark, feeding hungrily on the wooden slats of the staircase and spreading up the walls and across the ceiling.

Maka smacks back into the door. Smoke cloaks the demon but its footsteps creak ominously on the burning wood. She throws her weight against the door in desperation, ramming her shoulder into it and shaking the handle with both hands to no avail.

The fire fans out rapidly but it comes to a stop just below the step she stands on, flames snapping at her feet before crawling up the sides of the wall. She presses her hand to her mouth and sinks to the floor, as if she makes herself quiet and small enough she'll disappear.

The demon's words reverberate in her bones. "I can smell your fear."

An involuntary whimper escapes from Maka-fear murmurs a song of surrender in her ears, binding her arms and legs in place. Screams for help rattle against her teeth but her ghosts are too far away to hear her and all she can do is listen as the demon approaches. The smoke is too thick to spot the demon but it's close enough she can feel the taste of its scorched flesh on her tongue. She wonders wildly whether her body will look like the demon after it takes her soul.

The thought ignites something stronger than fear in her chest. It burns like lightning in her veins, pushing her to her feet just as the outline of the demon takes shape. The fire recedes as the demon closes the distance between them. Maka balls her hands into fists and glares at the scarlet eyes boring into her: no matter what happens, she will not die cowering in a corner.

The demon pauses on the step below hers, tilting its head at an unnatural angle. It raises a decayed hand and runs a pointed nail down her face. Its mouth splits into a rabid smile. "You're mine."

"Maka?" Her father's voice sounds from the front of the house. "We're home."

"Papa!" She whirls around on instinct, banging on the door. "Help me!"

The demon's touch as it seizes her arm is surprisingly fragile, solid only for an instant before seeping into her skin. Its triumphant screech of mineminemine twists in her head before the demon is flung back out of her body.

Maka doubles over, sputtering for breath, as a familiar voice sounds from above her.

"I told you not to turn around."

She looks up to see the Librarian and the rest of the ghosts hovering in front of her. They form a barrier between Maka and the demon, which lays crouched at the bottom of the steps, but that doesn't keep the fire from beginning to spread its way back up the stairwell.

"Get out," the ghost says.

"But-"

"Now!"

Maka spins back to the door; the handle no longer refuses to twist but something jams the door from opening. She shoves her body into the door, feeling it give way slightly. "Help me," she yells as she slams her body into the door again. The heat of the flames lick at her ankles. "Help me!"

A roar from the demon nearly makes her head split open and suddenly the air feels lighter but Maka doesn't stop screaming for her parents or running into the door, even as she chokes on the scorching heat of the fire drawing closer and closer. Her vision doubles then blurs as she inhales more smoke than oxygen. Summoning the last of her energy, she wavers on her feet before she forces herself to move, watching the basement door swing open as she lurches forward.

The last thing Maka hears as she tumbles out of the basement and into her father is the muffled haze of invisible voices.

They ring with an aching familiarity, reminding her of a lullaby she heard when she was little.

And just like when she was little, she follows their melody into sleep.


Maka wakes up to a cacophony of harried voices and flashing lights. Her head buzzes with a fog that tugs her back into unconsciousness but she opens her eyes when she hears her parents next to her.

Shadows edge the corners of her vision and her head is heavy as Maka tries to twist towards her parents. Nothing comes into focus, except the gleam of her father's hair and the panic in her mother's voice. Wherever she is, it's moving fast; a mask covers her mouth, garbling her words as she tries to speak.

Her mother exclaims when she spots Maka moving and she grabs her hand, speaking rapidly, but all she hears is a hazy rush of words that meld together.

So quietly that she hardly notices, the fog sweeps her away again.

When she wakes again, she's lying in a bed and everything is simultaneously more clear and unreal. A machine beeps rhythmically beside Maka, quickening slightly as she shakes off the film of sleep hanging over her eyes. Her mouth tastes like cotton balls and as she starts to call for water, memories pour over her like an avalanche.

The machine's beeps turn into a swift chirping. Maka feebly tries to take off the mask off her face but another pair of hands still hers.

Her mother's face swims into view. "You're awake." Her eyes are lined with red and her hair, always neat and in place, sticks up at odd angles. "The doctors said the sedative should have worn off over an hour ago."

Maka's tongue is heavy and her words come out slow and thick. "Where's Papa?"

She stiffens before answering. "He's at home." Her lips purse briefly as she settles back in the chair next to the bed. "Dealing with the damage."

"Oh." Guilt runs white-hot under her skin. Maka plays with the tail of her hospital bracelet before asking, "Is it a lot?"

"Just the basement and everything in it." Her mother shifts in her seat, folding her arms. "The firefighters couldn't save anything."

The I.V. in her hand pinches as she clenches her hands. "I'm sor-"

"Do you know what happened?"

Maka lifts her head back up. "Yes, I remember."

"No." The word bursts from her mother like thunder and carries the weight of a slap across the face.

Taking a deep breath, she says more calmly, "No, I asked you if you know what happened."

"I-" Her mother closes her eyes and rubs the side of her temples, propping her elbow on the arm of her chair.

"You were talking in your sleep."

She doesn't need to ask what Maka was talking about. How Maka feels now is worse than how she did in the basement. Her voice grows small. "I'm sorry."

Her mother's eyes open and her expression softens. She reaches out, patting her hand. "There's nothing you need to apologize for. That basement was only full of broken things."

Maka nods, mustering a small smile. Somehow, her words makes the guilt only needle more painfully at her.

With another pat to her hand, her mother pulls away and leans back into the chair.

Maka mirrors her, sinking back into her pillows. Yawning, she pretends to fall asleep again but secretly she watches her mother through lidded eyes.

Her mother stays in her chair, gazing absently at nothing. There are so many more lines in her mother's face than there are in her father's. As the minutes tick by, her expression doesn't change but something in her face drops, revealing an exhaustion that runs down much farther than skin-deep.

She's the one who did this, a thorny voice informs Maka. She's made her mother this tired, much more than the years of fighting with her father have made her and only in a matter of weeks.

When her father enters the hospital room, her mother doesn't draw the mask back up. They don't speak to each other but the silence in the air says more than enough; Maka longs to speak, do something that will pull them together rather than push them apart, but something stops her from moving until the doctor enters the room and by then the moment has passed and her mother is the same as before.

Maka keeps her eyes trained on the ground as the nurse wheels her out of the hospital and to her car after she is pronounced out of danger by the doctor. The united facade her parents put up disappears the moment they begin driving. Internally, Maka berates herself for not speaking up the entire way home, but it's only half-hearted.

She didn't want to know how her mother would have looked at her.


The sun is slipping beneath the horizon by the time they get home. Maka's lungs ache when she moves and she coughs intermittently but the doctor had cleared of any danger from the smoke she inhaled.

Neither of her parents exchange more than a few words to each other as they help Maka to her room. She expects to see the ghosts waiting by her bed when her father opens her bedroom door but the room is empty. Panic roils in her stomach but it's common for the ghosts to move into the closet when her parents are in her room, which Mrs. Horschenblott called basic etiquette.

Maka doesn't know why but the thought makes her want to laugh and cry at the same time. Her parents give her strange looks when a small giggle escapes from her but the strained air between them pushes them out of the room once she's settled in her bed.

As soon as their footsteps fade out of earshot, Maka springs from her bed and pads over to her closet, whispering, "How many times have I to-"

The closet is empty.

For a moment, Maka stares blankly into the closet and then stubbornness mixed with denial sets in. She pushes her way to the closet's back, shoving away hangers and old toys. "Where are you?"

She exits the closet with a frown and goes back to her bed, dropping to her knees, looking underneath it and finding nothing.

"If this is because I turned around, I've learned my lesson." Her voice crawls up in pitch as Maka circles the room, flinging back her curtains-it's easier to be angry than to admit fear. "This isn't funny anymore, come out!"

She waits.

Beneath her feet, the violent muted rumbling of her parents' fighting thuds in her chest like a second heartbeat.

Maka continues to wait.

Truth crystallizes her heart into glass; realization quietly shatters it.

Her ghosts have never kept her waiting before.

It's not the room that's empty: it's her.

Somewhere inside of Maka, a hole bigger than her body splits open. She stays frozen for a moment and after another beat, she starts to move.

The dying rays of the sun casts her shadow in a red glow as Maka gathers up her journals, piling them on her bed. Retrieving a box from her closet, she neatly places the journals in the box. Then she scours her room for everything that she's done with her ghosts: a friendship bracelet she made with Eliza and Mrs. Horschenblott, the travel brochures she collected for Ernest, the Librarian's catalog of library books she'd promised to borrow for her and the notebook tallying her Monopoly wins between April's and Henry's. She lays them all in the box with care and fits the lid on the box gently when she's done.

It's not hard to slip out of the house-her parents' yelling buffers the creak of the stairs and the groan of the front door as Maka squeezes through and onto the porch. She cradles the box against her chest as she walks unsteadily down the driveway, still lethargic from the sedative the doctor gave her.

She pauses when she reaches the end of the driveway. Breathing in deeply, Maka hugs the box close to her.

Then she plunges the box into the open trashcan next to her, burying it amongst the dead leaves and branches until it's out of view.

She twists around and marches back to the house, and although her hands are shaking and she has to scrub at her eyes with her sleeve, she does not turn back.

With every step, she forces a stitch through the hole in her body and pulls it closed.

When she re-enters the house, the shouting hasn't ceased.

She will never talk to another ghost again.