"My wife, the movie star, got caught by the paparazzi in a hotel room with her high school sweetheart. She called me to fix it. So I put on the same Tom Ford suit to create a diversion, and in the process, I was cornered in an alley by her most extreme fans and beaten to death. When my mother finally found me, I was slick with blood, my heart a dead, silent thing in my chest. She collapsed, sobbing, her knees hitting the grimy pavement as she frantically called my wife, dozens of times, begging for help. All she got in return was a voice crackling with rage. “You couldn’t even handle the paparazzi? You’re pathetic! Why don’t you just go die?” But… I already had. 1. My soul didn’t scatter after I died. It lingered, a ghost tethered to the world of the living. I watched my mom, her body stooped with a fatigue that went bone-deep, handle the arrangements for my funeral. It was well past midnight by the time she was done. She sat slumped in her wheelchair, her fingers tracing the smooth, cold ceramic of my urn. The tears she’d held back finally broke free, a string of pearls snapping, scattering grief across her worn face. “Oh, Ethan, my sweet boy.” “Why did you have to go before me? A mother isn’t supposed to live without her son.” Her voice was a raw, shredded thing. Her eyes were swollen and bruised from crying. There is no pain in this world like a parent burying their child. Seeing the silver in her hair bloom overnight, conquering the last of the black, it broke what was left of my heart. I regretted it all. I knelt beside her, my ghostly form a useless comfort, whispering her name over and over. “Mom.” But I was dead. She couldn’t hear a thing. Tears of regret I could no longer physically shed burned in my soul, dissolving into a faint white mist that vanished as quickly as it formed. I pressed my forehead to the floorboards before her. Mom, I’m so sorry. Your son failed you. “Ethan!” It was as if she felt me, a sudden chill in the room. She started to turn her head, but at that exact moment— BANG! The front door slammed open, kicked in with such force that my mother flinched violently. Framed in the doorway were two unwelcome guests: my wife, Ava Sterling, and her first love, Caleb. Ava’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows were knotted in fury, her voice a low burn of unrestrained anger. “Ethan! I told you to lead the press away, and you couldn’t even manage that! I could’ve hired a trained monkey and gotten better results!” Her eyes scanned the small apartment, finding it empty of me. The frustration morphed into something uglier, more volatile. “Because of your incompetence, Caleb’s face is plastered all over TMZ!” With a guttural scream of rage, she kicked over a box of my belongings—things my mother had painstakingly gathered and organized. Then, she strode toward my mom. “You, old woman! Where is he? Tell him to get his ass out here right now!” I balled my fists, a pointless gesture. There was no strength, no substance, just a cold, impotent rage. “My Ethan…” Mom’s voice was a whisper, her hand caressing my urn as if it were my cheek. She didn’t look up, her whole being seemed to have been hollowed out. “…he’s gone.” She had been crying for a day and a night straight. Her voice was sandpaper, each word a struggle. But when she spoke my name, it was still so gentle. Just like when I was a kid, coming home from school, and she’d be standing on the porch, waving, calling out to me. “Gone?” Caleb blinked, then shot a look at Ava, a small, exasperated smile playing on his lips. “Come on, Ava. Let’s just go. If Ethan doesn’t want to come out and fix this, I’ll handle the PR myself.” Seeing Caleb’s look of magnanimous resignation sent Ava’s fury into overdrive. “No!” Her gaze fell on my mother, cold and sharp. “You listen to me, you old hag,” she snarled. “I don’t care where Ethan is. You get him on the phone and tell him to get back here right now. He is going to get on his knees and apologize to Caleb.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a venomous hiss. “You clearly failed at raising a decent son, so I’ll teach him a lesson myself.” “Or else, I’ll make sure your whole family pays the price!” That’s enough, Ava! I’d been your workhorse, your secret, your shadow, all to support your career, to make sure you shone on screen. I swallowed the hidden marriage, the constant humiliations. But I’m dead. I just died. How can you come here and threaten my mother? How can you unleash this poison on her? I clenched my fists so hard I thought my spectral form might tear apart, but it did nothing to stop Ava’s tirade. “Well? Speak up! Where is he?” Ava grabbed the front of my mother’s worn blouse, her face a mask of savage rage, her eyes boring into my mom’s. My mother, my strong, unbreakable mother, trembled. Her fingers clutched at the fabric over her heart. But the pain of losing a child had forged a new kind of strength in her. Her gentle eyes hardened, and she stared right back at Ava, each word landing like a stone. “I said… my son is dead.” Ava froze, her face a canvas of shock. For a single, suspended moment, even her breathing stopped. But then Caleb’s smooth voice sliced through the silence, pulling her back. “Ma’am, I understand you’re upset, but you can’t just curse your own son to death to avoid taking responsibility.” He shook his head, a performance of profound disappointment. “Ava is Ethan’s wife. Couples fight. For you to get in the middle of it at your age, to stir up trouble… it’s no wonder Ava has had to carry this family on her back.” My teeth ground together at his sanctimonious act. And, like always, Ava bought it completely. Her expression hardened. Her eyes swept over my mother, from her white hair down to the wheels of her chair. A cold dread washed over me. Ava, no! I screamed. She didn’t hear me. She took a step forward and slapped my mother across the face. The sound was like a gunshot in the silent room. Before I could even process it, she drew her leg back and kicked the wheelchair with all her might. “Mom!” I screamed, a silent, agonizing roar, as I watched my mother tumble from the chair, her head cracking against the sharp corner of the coffee table. “Ava! Stop it! She’s not lying! I’m really dead! You killed me!” I roared at her, my voice lost to the space between worlds. This monster couldn't hear me. “Mom! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” I knelt on the floor, watching the woman who had once seemed so strong, so capable of carrying the world—the woman who had carried me—now lying broken on the floor, so easily toppled. “Ava! What more do you want?” As I tried again and again, in vain, to help my mother up, I saw Ava stalking toward her. Ignoring my desperate, unheard screams, she bent down, wrapped her hands around my mother’s throat, and hauled her up. “AVA!” Blood trickled from the gash on my mother’s forehead, dripping onto Ava’s hands, onto the bulging veins of her knuckles as she squeezed. Her next words were delivered with chilling precision. “Call him. If he’s not here in three minutes…” She slammed my mother back against the floor. Ava’s eyes were blazing. “…I’ll let him see your ashes instead, you old bitch!”"
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