Page 41 of Paws & Order

I pretend not to notice.

“Theodore. I mean, that’s got to be him, right? Everything points to it. All these gifts, the blue, the handwriting, the?—”

I stop before I say longing, which is embarrassing even by my standards.

Cassian leans back, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“You’re less scared now.”

“I’m not sure it was ever scary in the way we thought.”

It comes out softer than I intend.

“The worst thing about having a ghost is not being able to tell if he’s lonely or just… stuck.”

Cassian’s expression shifts.

Not much.

Just enough.

“Most hauntings aren’t malicious,” he says. “They just want to be seen. Or heard.”

I sip my coffee, stalling for time.

“Does that ever work? Seeing them, I mean.”

His mouth does this thing—a slow, reluctant curve, like he’s fighting with himself about whether he’s allowed to smile.

“Sometimes. Sometimes all they want is to know they mattered.”

The quiet between us turns heavy, but not uncomfortable.

I’m so used to filling space—with chatter, with movement, with puzzles to solve—that I forget silence can be its own kind of statement.

Gomez breaks it first.

He drops from the windowsill and plants himself in the middle of the living room rug, tail wrapped around his paws, chittering at the empty air near the bookshelf.

It’s the sound he usually reserves for birds on the fire escape—that focused, mechanical clicking that means something has his complete attention, even if that something is invisible.

Cassian notices first.

“He’s talking to someone.”

“Yeah,” I say, then call out, “What’re you up to, G?”

Gomez sprawls on the rug, paws draped around his stuffed mouse, eyes gleaming.

I smile despite myself.

“Maybe he’s showing Teddy his toys.”

Cassian arches an eyebrow.

“Teddy?”

I shrug.