The tavern held its silence like a secret.

  A low murmur drifted from one corner, the occasional clink of tankards breaking the hush, but for the most part, the night was slow, thick with unspoken thoughts. The fire crackled lazily in the hearth, its glow stretching long, flickering shadows across the wooden walls—shadows that swayed and twisted like the ghosts Barrow often spoke of.

  He sat in the corner, his heavy coat slung over the back of his chair, a tankard of ale in his calloused hand. The amber liquid swirled under his fingers as he tilted the cup, watching the firelight warp against the curve of the metal rim.

  Barrow had always been a man who carried his past like an old wound—one that had scarred over but never quite healed.

  Tonight, though… tonight, the past refused to stay buried.

  His voice, roughened by years of shouting over the roar of markets and the wind of long roads, broke the hush of his table.

  “Well,” he muttered to no one in particular, “once upon a time, I thought ghosts were just stories. Things we told ourselves to explain loss, grief… things we don’t want to accept. But now?” He took a slow drink, letting the warmth settle in his chest. “Now, I’m not so sure.”

  Across from him, Callum—his young apprentice, barely a man but already carrying the weight of one—leaned in, curiosity plain on his face. Too young to be asking these questions. Too young to be looking at Barrow like he had all the answers.

  “What changed your mind?”

  Barrow exhaled through his nose, fingers drumming against the tankard’s rim. “Life,” he said simply. Then, after a moment, he added, “And death.”

  A pause. The tavern murmured on, oblivious to the weight of his words.

  He stared into the fire, its flickering embers pulling memories to the surface, dragging them from the depths like shipwrecks rising from the ocean floor.

  “It was years ago,” he continued, voice lower now, quieter, as if afraid the walls themselves might listen. “During the war. People vanishing. Objects glimpsed out of the corner of your eye that shouldn’t have been there. At the time, I chalked it up to fatigue. The fog of war. But then…” His fingers tightened around his drink. “Then there was the house.”

  Callum tilted his head. “The house?”

  Barrow nodded, gaze distant. “An old manor, standing alone on the edge of a dead forest. We were stationed there, my unit. It was meant to be abandoned, just another relic of a family long gone. But strange things started happening.”

  Callum’s brow furrowed, his interest piqued despite the nervous glance he cast toward the dim-lit corners of the tavern.

  “What kind of strange things?”

  Barrow took a long drink before setting the tankard down with a soft thud. “Voices. Whispers in the halls at night. Shadows moving in windows where no one stood. At first, I thought my men were just cracking under the pressure. War does that to people.” He shook his head. “I didn’t believe them. Not until I saw her.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Callum’s breath hitched. “Who?”

  Barrow’s lips pressed into a tight line. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost reluctant.

  “A woman. Pale as the moon. Standing at the top of the staircase.” He swallowed. “She looked right at me. But her eyes… they weren’t human.”

  Callum tensed. “What do you mean?”

  Barrow’s fingers tapped absently against the table. “They were filled with light. Not firelight. Not the glow of the sun. Something… otherworldly. And then, she was gone. No sound. No footsteps. Just… gone.”

  Silence stretched between them. The tavern’s warmth suddenly felt suffocating.

  Callum was the first to break it. “You think she was a ghost?”

  Barrow shook his head. “No. Not a ghost.” He looked Callum dead in the eyes. “What if all those stories we tell—about spirits and lost souls—what if they’re wrong? What if they’re not ghosts at all?”

  The young man’s brows furrowed. “Then… what are they?”

  Barrow exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. “People.”

  Callum blinked. “People?”

  “From somewhere else.” Barrow’s voice was heavy. “Think about it. Every culture has stories of spirits appearing and disappearing, of figures glimpsed through the veil of reality. But what if they’re not spirits at all? What if they’re trapped? Caught in the cracks between worlds, just like—” He stopped himself, lips tightening.

  Callum finished the thought for him. “Just like the people disappearing now.”

  Barrow nodded slowly.

  Callum’s face paled. “That’s… unsettling.”

  “It ought to be,” Barrow murmured. He swirled the last of his ale, watching it shift in the firelight. “Humanity has always feared the unknown. We make up stories, gods, and monsters to explain what we don’t understand. But the truth?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “The truth is stranger than any story we tell ourselves.”

  A long pause.

  Finally, Callum asked, “If you know how dangerous this is… why do you keep chasing it?”

  Barrow looked down at his tankard, then back up at the young man sitting across from him.

  Gods, he looked so much like him.

  “My wife,” Barrow said finally. “My son.”

  Callum’s expression shifted, sympathy creeping into his features.

  Barrow let out a slow breath. “They died in the war. Or at least, that’s what I believed. But now…” He looked away. “Now, I wonder if they’re gone. Or if they’re just… somewhere else. Trapped. Waiting.”

  His voice cracked on the last word. He clenched his jaw, blinking quickly.

  Callum swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

  Barrow gave a short, dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Don’t be.” He straightened, clearing his throat. “Loss is part of life. But it’s also what drives us to search for answers.”

  He leaned forward, his tone quiet but firm.

  “And let me tell you something, lad—whatever’s on the other side of that barrier? It’s not just spirits and shadows. It’s bigger. Something we’ve been too afraid to confront.”

  Callum shivered, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting one of these ‘ghosts’ to materialize in the dim light of the tavern.

  Barrow finished his drink, then rose, tossing a few coins onto the table.

  “Take care, Callum,” he said, his voice gentler now. “And if you ever meet a ghost—don’t run. Ask yourself: What is it really?”

  He turned to leave, then hesitated.

  For a moment, he glanced at the empty chair across from him.

  “Goodbye, son,” he murmured.

  Words meant for a man long dead.

  Adjusting his coat, he strode toward the door, feeling the weight of the barkeep’s quiet scrutiny on his back.

  The night air hit him, damp and cool. The streets were empty, swallowed by fog.

  His mind churned with old thoughts, and old memories.

  James Caldwell.

  Barrow had heard whispers of a man seeking the same answers, following the same trail of shadows.

  Maybe it was time they met.