Page 13 of Ashen Souls

“I heard someone,” I whispered.

Mom leaned closer, her shadow falling across the bed. “Heard someone?”

“When I was… out,” I clarified. “Before I woke up.”

Harper’s brow furrowed, searching my eyes for a concussion-induced haze. “Like a nurse? Someone in the ER?”

I shook my head, the movement sending a throb through my skull. “No.”

The nurse gave me a calm, professional smile, the kind designed to close doors without slamming them.

“It’s not uncommon after trauma,” she said. “Auditory hallucinations happen when the brain is under extreme stress. Your mind is just trying to make sense of the chaos, Aveline.”

A new hallucination.

It would be a convenient, clinical label. Infinitely easier than admitting my brain wasn't malfunctioning at all.

“It was a man.” My voice sank to a low, private rasp, out of place in all that scrubbed plastic. “And it wasn’t random. He… he knew me.”

Mom’s fingers clenched around the bedrail. “Sweetheart…”

“I didn’t see him,” I rushed on, my heart thudding in my teeth. “But I heard him. The way he spoke, the way he called my name…” I hesitated, the memory of his grip still burning into my left wrist. “It didn’t feel imaginary. It didn’t feel like a symptom.”

The silence that followed turned the air to stone. I watched the relief vanish from Dad’s face, overtaken by the sort of look you give to someone who is already lost.

Harper was the first to break it.

“Sexy trauma ghost,” she muttered, rubbing her eyes. “We’ll file that under ‘things to discuss with a therapist’ and move on to literally anything else.”

“Okay,” I breathed.

The nurse nodded, visibly relieved. “A psychologist will come by later,” she added, checking the monitors. “Just to talk. It’s routine after a collision of this scale.”

Nothing about this felt routine.

The afternoon dissolved into an endless loop of clinical interrogation. Penlights across my pupils. The tap of fingers on my knees. Strings of random words I had to repeat to prove I was operating in the here and now.

I answered correctly. I played the part of the lucky survivor with precision.

By late afternoon, my parents gathered close to the bed again.

“When they discharge you, you’re coming home with us, Aveline.” Mom’s tone was soft but final.

I opened my mouth to protest, thinking of my apartment, my books, my independence, but Dad stepped in.

“No arguments.” He held my gaze, unwavering. “Just until you’re fully recovered. We need you where we can see you.”

“Okay.” The word surprised me with how easily it slipped out. For once, I didn’t have the energy to fight for my solitude.

Maybe being watched by people who loved me wouldn’t be the worst thing right now. Not when the alternative was wondering if the dark corners in my apartment had learned how to speak.

Harper stayed long after the parental vigil finally ended. She occupied the plastic chair beside my bed like she was guarding a crime scene, her legs tucked under her chin.

“So,” she said after a long silence, dropping into a frequency she only used when the sarcasm ran dry. “Scale of one to ten. How ruined do you feel?”

“Seven.” I weighed the number against the ache in my ribs. “Maybe an eight when I turn.”

“Respectable.” She nodded, her eyes fixed on mine. “Any pain?”