The morning light crept slowly across the faded curtains of Alfred's grandfather's bedroom.
He hadn't changed anything.
The bed remained neatly made, with hospital-corner precision, and the slippers were still tucked under the edge, right where Martin Loms used to keep them. Even now, a faint trace of his cologne lingered in the closet, cedar and sandalwood. Ghosts didn't need to howl or wail. Sometimes they just sat silently in the air, thick as memory.
Alfred stood in the doorway, toothbrush dangling from his mouth, staring at the room as if it might speak.
It didn't.
So he finished brushing, showered quickly, and pulled on a hoodie and jeans. The stone, warm as ever, slid naturally into his pocket.
He didn't think about it.
Not this morning.
***
Fremont was quieter than usual.
The bus pulled up five minutes late, its electric whir oddly soft against the rustle of wind and distant construction. Alfred boarded, tapping his transit card. The driver, an older woman with a greying bun and a pin shaped like a sunburst on her vest, gave him a brief nod.
He sat by the window and watched the world pass by, strip malls, old motels repurposed into shelters, a billboard with a faded message about sustainable living and resilience.
His phone buzzed in his jacket.
[Helia 🍲]
Don't forget the onions this time. You owe me stir-fry night.
Also: job boards. You promised.
Alfred smiled faintly. There was comfort in her bossiness.
[Me]
Copy that. Onions. Jobs. World peace.
A second buzz arrived a moment later.
[Helia 🍲]
Don't joke. If I find out you skipped lunch again, I'll kill you before any ghosts do.
He stared at that last message longer than he meant to. It was meant to be a joke, but something about it made his fingers close protectively around the stone in his pocket.
No ghosts today.
He turned his face back to the window and leaned against the glass.
***
The grocery store was half-empty, stocked in patches. Climate events, labor shortages, fuel price spikes, there was always something. He wandered the aisles with a small basket, checking his mental list.
Milk. Rice. Onions. Chicken (if not overpriced). Oolong tea, for Helia.
His fingers hovered over a row of instant noodles. Gramps hated them. "Cardboard for the soul," he used to mutter. Alfred tossed two into the cart anyway.
Halfway to checkout, he paused in the spice aisle. Paprika. Basil. Five spice. A little tin of turmeric with an old-world label: "For warmth and healing."
His hand hovered over it, then drew back.
He wasn't ready for healing. Not yet.
***
Back at the house, he dropped the groceries on the counter and stared at the fridge. Empty again. Every time he went shopping, it felt like he was feeding a place rather than himself.
A home that no longer answered back.
The silence crept in again as he unpacked. He filled the pantry. Replaced wilted green onions. Washed the fruit. Then opened the job board on his laptop.
First tab: university portal. Part-time jobs.
Second tab: classifieds.
Third tab: Anything.
He scrolled without thinking, eyes unfocused. Data entry. Grocery stocker. Remote tutoring. Occasional drivers needed for solar delivery fleets.
Helia's voice echoed faintly in his mind. Anything is better than staying stuck, Al.
He clicked on a tutoring post. English lit, high school level. Online. $20 an hour. He sent a polite email.
Then another. Then three more.
A quiet rhythm settled in. Apply. Refresh. Search again.
He didn't expect miracles. Just a reply.
***
The afternoon sun had dipped lower when the doorbell rang.
Alfred blinked. He hadn't ordered anything. The mail came at noon.
He opened the door slowly.
No one was there.
Just a small package on the doorstep. No return label. Brown paper, tied with string.
His breath caught for a moment. It felt like the beginning of something. Or the middle of something he hadn't realized started.
He brought it inside, heart thumping, and untied the string.
Inside were two things.
A folded photograph. And a plastic bag containing a key.
He unfolded the photo first.
A blurry image. A younger version of his grandfather, standing beside a tree Alfred didn't recognize. There was a boy next to him. Around Alfred's age, but the picture was too old and too faded to make out clearly.
On the back, written in blue ink:
"When you find the place that no longer remembers light, use this. M.L."
He turned to the key. It was old, rusted slightly at the edges, but heavy. Real. Tangible.
It had no tag. No hint.
Alfred stared at it for a long time.
Then carefully placed both the key and the photo in a drawer beside the sink.
He didn't want to think about it right now.
Not today.
***
Evening settled in slowly. He chopped onions and garlic, started the rice cooker, pan-fried the chicken with leftover sauce Helia gave him last week.
The house smelled alive for a change.
He set a second plate at the table out of habit, then removed it.
Habit was cruel.
The food tasted decent. He'd learned enough from Helia's bullying to avoid disaster.
After dinner, he cleaned up, sat on the porch, and watched the sun dip behind the neighbor's solar panels.
A cat wandered lazily along the garden wall.
For a brief moment, Alfred felt almost human again.
And then the stone pulsed.
Not warm.
Hot.
He sat upright, gripping the edge of the chair.
The sky was turning purple, soft twilight, but something moved at the edge of his vision.
A shadow too still. A silence too sudden.
Alfred looked down at his hand.
The stone had slipped from his pocket and now lay on his palm, faintly glowing.
He didn't move. Didn't breathe.
It pulsed again. Once. Then dimmed.
Nothing else happened.
No ghosts. No voices.
Only the faint rustling of wind through dry leaves.
He placed the stone back in his pocket, slower this time. Like it might bite.
Then stood, stretched, and went inside.
Tomorrow, he'd try another job post. Maybe two.
One foot in front of the other.
One ghostless day at a time.