The Punchline of Regret
The group chat had been silent for almost twenty-four hours—just a faint digital echo in the wake of shared shock. Then, at 3:17 a.m., Vivian shattered it like glass with a single all-caps message:
VIVIAN: I'M GOING. IF ONLY TO PISS ON HER SHRINE.
By 9 a.m., they were all on a shaky Zoom call. The digital grid displayed five fractured versions of grief and guilt. Lena sat cross-legged in her sunlit studio, surrounded by crystals and plants that looked too serene for the weight in her eyes. Marc hunched in his book-cluttered office, unshaven, sipping from a chipped mug that smelled of whiskey and resignation. Vivian was framed by a vanity lit with vintage bulbs, a clove cigarette trailing lazy spirals of smoke. Darren joined late, still panting from a jog, his gym shirt soaked and earbuds dangling. Theo was last—camera off, voice sharp, audio crisp as ever.
No one spoke at first. The silence crackled. Heavy. Intimate. Like standing together at the edge of a grave.
Marc cleared his throat. "So… we're all here. That's something."
"Against my better judgment," Lena muttered. Her arms folded tightly across her chest. "This feels like a trap."
"A PR stunt," Darren said, rolling his shoulders. "Some marketing intern dug through Eden's old notebooks and pitched a haunted reunion event. I've seen worse ideas get greenlit at expos."
Vivian scoffed. "Oh, please. Eden couldn't even keep her calendar straight. You really think she pulled off some elaborate posthumous revenge tour?"
"She didn't," Theo said. His voice cut through the noise—measured, factual. "But someone did. Someone who knew her. Who knew us."
"Of course you'd say that," Vivian snapped. "You built your brand on picking through her corpse. You want her to still be stirring up headlines. It's profitable for you."
Theo didn't flinch. He let the insult settle like ash. He'd heard worse from strangers. Worse from himself.
"It's not about money," he said. "It's about the pattern. I've tracked rumors for years—sightings, cryptic notes, anonymous tips. Most were junk. But this?" He held up the cream-colored card. "This is different. Handwritten. Ink is authentic. Paper is pre-2000s. And Grayfall Manor? It's not on any public record. You don't fake this level of precision without inside access."
Lena leaned forward. "So let's say it's real. What's the point? What does she want—revenge? Forgiveness? One last laugh?"
Theo hesitated. "I don't know. But if there's even a chance that she's reaching out… I need to see it through."
"You don't owe her that," Darren said. Quiet. Hard.
Theo's voice sharpened. "Don't I?"
Another silence, deeper this time.
"I owe her everything," he continued. "My name. My credibility. And yeah—my guilt."
Vivian rolled her eyes. "Cue the confessional monologue."
"Not yet," Theo said. "That comes later. For now, I'm asking you to come. Just once. After that, we go our separate ways."
Lena rubbed her temples. "Even dead, she finds a way to crawl under my skin."
"She always did," Marc murmured.
"Exactly," Vivian said. "She's still pulling strings from the grave, still trying to make herself the star. It's pathetic."
"Maybe it's not about her anymore," Lena said. "Maybe it's about us."
Darren laughed bitterly. "What is this, a therapy séance? If I wanted to revisit my worst decisions, I'd open my old tour contracts."
Marc's voice was gentle but firm. "You know she called you. The night before."
"I know," Darren snapped. "And I didn't pick up. I was on tour, strung out on jet lag and caffeine, and I missed it. You think I haven't replayed that voicemail a hundred times?"
No one pressed him further.
Lena was the one to break the tension. "What if we just… went? Just to see? If it's a prank, we walk away. But if it's real…"
She trailed off.
"Maybe it's time we stopped pretending we were innocent."
Vivian sighed and blew a perfect ring of smoke. "You would say something poetic."
"Don't you feel it?" Lena said, eyes fierce now. "That pull? Like the punchline is still out there, waiting for us to deliver it."
Marc nodded slowly. "She always said we were her best material. Maybe this is the setup."
"Or maybe we're the punchline," Theo said quietly.
That shut them up.
That night, the rain returned. In Theo's apartment, water tapped at the windows like fingernails. He stared at the card on his desk again, tracing the ink with his eyes.
You've always been my best material. Now it's time for one last laugh.
It wasn't just a message. It was a challenge. A summons. Maybe even a warning.
He pressed RECORD.
"This is Theo Banner. Friday night. The others are on board—or close. Tomorrow we meet at Grayfall Manor. This doesn't feel like a story anymore. It feels like a reckoning."
He paused. Then, softer:
"I'm not afraid of ghosts. I'm afraid of remembering who I was. Who we were."
Click.
Outside, thunder cracked like a punchline no one wanted to laugh at.
Across the city, Vivian stared into the glowing mirror of her dressing room. She touched her cheek, halfway through blending foundation, when she paused.
In the reflection, just behind her, stood a flicker of Eden.
That crooked grin. That knowing stare. The way she tilted her head—half sarcasm, half sympathy.
Vivian spun around. Empty.
She downed the rest of her scotch.
"Tomorrow," she whispered. "Let's end this act."
Lena sat on her floor, the incense barely masking the tremor in her breath. She whispered a mantra, the same one she'd used the night Eden died.
She didn't know what she believed anymore. Only that Eden's gravity still held her in orbit—aching, furious, tethered.
She stared at the card one last time, then zipped up her travel bag.
Darren stood on his balcony, the city glinting below like a fractured disco ball. He didn't even have her number saved anymore. But he remembered the shape of her voice. The way she'd laughed—dry, devastating, unforgettable.
Maybe he hated her for getting the last word.
Maybe he hated himself more.
"Alright, Eden," he said to the wind. "Let's see your encore."
Marc sat alone in his classroom, ghostly chalk outlines still faint on the board behind him. He imagined her there, spinning a line, building a setup. She always knew how to twist the knife and make you laugh through the blood.
He closed his notebook. Locked the door. Walked out without looking back.
Grayfall Manor waited.
Its windows dark. Its halls hollow. But somewhere deep inside, the air was shifting. The lights flickered like laughter.
Not the end of a story.
Just the beginning of the setup.
The joke no one laughed at—because they all suspected the truth:
They weren't just Eden's best material.
They were the punchline.