Lyra’s silver bow shimmered faintly in the morning light as she adjusted her grip, her gloved fingers pulling the string back slowly with practiced ease. Her movements were tense, uncertain, but still graceful, like someone who’d been in just enough danger to learn caution, but not quite enough to forget fear. Her eyes darted between me and the strange substance I was currently sprinkling onto the tip of her arrow.

  “Are you sure this will work?” she asked again, narrowing her eyes as I tapped the pouch of salt one last time.

  “Yeah,” I replied with far more confidence than I probably deserved. “Movies don’t lie, right?” I pressed the arrow gently between my fingers, making sure the salt adhered properly to the surface. It clung to the metal just enough, almost like it understood what we were up against.

  We were standing just outside the crooked fence that bordered the old graveyard. The ground was uneven, and the air carried a distinct chill despite the sun that peeked out between scattered clouds. The trees around us swayed gently, their leaves rustling like nervous whispers, as though the forest itself was holding its breath. The graveyard stretched before us in a silence that didn’t feel quite natural, like it was watching.

  Lyra gave me a puzzled look, raising an eyebrow beneath her hood. “What the hell are movies?” she asked, flattening her ears slightly, as if even the word sounded suspicious.

  I blinked. “Oh… right. Uh, they’re like… illusions, but made with magic and light. Stories you can watch instead of read. Kind of like plays, but with better explosions.”

  Lyra stared at me like I had just told her bread could sing.

  “…You’re weird,” she finally said.

  “And you’re about to shoot a ghost with a salt arrow, so let’s not pretend either of us is normal,” I replied with a grin.

  She huffed, but the corner of her mouth twitched like she was holding back a laugh. “Fair enough, noble fox girl. Just don’t get us killed because you trust in theater magic.”

  I gave a thumbs-up. “Trust in the power of low-budget horror films. Now go full Legolas on that grave ghoul.”

  Lyra sighed and turned back toward the mist-laced tombstones. “I have no idea what that means either.”

  Lyra narrowed her eyes as the eerie white figure hovered above the graveyard, its glow pulsing softly. The air felt colder now, as if the ghostly presence had stolen the warmth from the morning breeze. From where she stood just beyond the rusty iron fence, Lyra steadied her breathing.

  Her bow creaked slightly as she pulled the string taut, an arrow locked and ready. Her blond hair caught the fading sunlight, the strands shimmering like moonlit threads as they swayed in the wind. She didn’t dare move closer, the aura surrounding the creature was enough to make her gut twist with unease. Whatever it was, it wasn’t human. And it wasn’t resting in peace.

  She aimed higher, letting her instincts guide her rather than her sight. The thing drifted slowly, like it hadn’t noticed us yet, or perhaps it didn’t care. Its translucent form rippled in and out of focus, as if the world itself couldn’t decide whether it was truly there.

  Lyra exhaled and released. The arrow cut through the air with a sharp whistle, glowing faintly as it sailed through the boundary between the living and the dead. It struck the ghost squarely in what could be considered its chest, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze.

  The aim was perfect, calculated, focused. But just as the arrow was about to make contact, the white thing shimmered. For a split second, its body blurred and lost form, as if it had peeled away from the world. The arrow passed straight through, striking the gravestone behind it with a dull thud. No burst of energy, no signs of damage, nothing at all. The spirit hovered exactly where it had been, its glow uninterrupted, almost mocking. It was like it hadn’t even noticed or worse, it had, and it just didn’t care.

  The spirit shifted slightly, drifting sideways through the air, and then turned. No eyes, no face, but they both felt it. That slow, creeping awareness, like something cold and ancient, had finally taken notice of them. The hairs on my neck stood up, my fingers tightening around my cloak. It wasn’t just some wandering ghost. It was watching.

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  “Um… That was rude, you know…”

  The voice slipped through the air behind us, as soft and casual as a breeze, but it cut straight through my spine like an icicle dropped down the back of my neck. I felt every muscle in my body go stiff. That wasn’t Lyra. That wasn’t anyone we’d seen. It was like the words had been whispered directly into the space behind my ear.

  I turned, heart pounding, the graveyard momentarily forgotten and there it was. The ghost. Not a ghost. The ghost. The same floating, glowing, shapeless spirit Lyra had just tried to shoot. Only now it was behind us, hovering about eye level, swaying slightly like it was enjoying the cool morning air. There was no face, no eyes, no mouth, just a softly glowing orb of shifting mist and faint light. But somehow, it still managed to give off the exact energy of someone sulking with their arms crossed.

  “AAA—GHOST!!!”

  I didn’t even think. I just flung myself toward Lyra, and to my surprise, she met me halfway. We clung to each other like our lives depended on it, though in fairness, it felt like they did. My arms were wrapped around her like a vice, and I was pretty sure I’d crushed a strand of her hair between my fingers. She smelled faintly of herbs and leather and tension. The ghost, meanwhile, had the audacity to float there looking… disappointed.

  “I was just floating peacefully, minding my own afterlife,” it said, in this breezy, half-bored tone that somehow made it worse. “And you shot me. Not even a ‘hi there,’ or ‘love your glow,’ or anything. Just zip, arrow to the ectoplasm.”

  I peeked from behind Lyra’s shoulder, still holding on tight. “Y-you teleported behind us!” I stammered. “That’s terrifying!”

  “Teleporting is, like, Ghosting 101,” it said matter-of-factly, doing a lazy loop in the air. “I even gave you a whole spooky introduction! Floating above the graveyard, dim lighting, mournful atmosphere? I curated the vibe for you.”

  Lyra shifted beside me, clearly still on edge, though I could feel some of the tension melting into confusion. “Wait… you can talk?” she asked slowly. “You’re not trying to curse us or… eat our souls or whatever?”

  “Ugh, why is that always the first assumption?” the ghost said, flipping upside down midair in a slow, annoyed twirl. “Maybe I’m just lonely. Maybe I want friends. Or at least someone who won’t shoot first and ask questions never.”

  I blinked, still clutching Lyra. “…You’re seriously just here to hang out?”

  “Not just hang out,” the ghost replied proudly, floating a little higher. “I’m a wandering conversationalist. A curator of spectral ambiance. A… what do you call it, vibe manager.”

  “…You’re a ghost,” I said flatly, “with vibes?”

  “The ghost with vibes,” it corrected. “Capital G. I even have a name, if you're polite enough to ask.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked politely, trying to sound less like someone who had just screamed and clung to her friend like a terrified kitten.

  The ghost perked up immediately, well, as much as a floating blob of light could perk up. It even spun in place, like it was twirling from excitement. “Napstabloo—”

  “NO, DON’T!” Lyra shouted suddenly, clapping her hand over my mouth and nearly causing me to fall over from surprise.

  I muffled a confused, “Mmmph?!?” into her palm, wide-eyed.

  The ghost froze mid-syllable, its glow flickering like a candle hit by a breeze. “…Oh,” it said softly. “You know.”

  Lyra didn’t answer right away. Her gaze was locked on the ghost with a kind of intensity I hadn’t seen before. Serious, alert, like she was seeing something a lot more dangerous than the cute-sounding name suggested. Slowly, she lowered her hand from my mouth, though her fingers hovered just in case I got any more polite ideas.

  “I’ve read about this,” she said, voice low and cautious. “Spirits that try to get you to say their full name. Not all of them are harmless. Some of them bind you to unfinished business… others just… possess you.”

  I blinked. “Okay but, like… he seems kind of too sleepy to pull off a possession?”

  “I am sleepy,” the ghost muttered sullenly, floating upside down again. “But I also contain multitudes.”

  “Multitudes?” I repeated, unsure if I should laugh or scream.

  “Regrets, secrets, emotional baggage, dramatic flair, the whole afterlife package.” It rotated slowly in the air, like it was doing a slow-mo somersault through existential dread. “Also, really good taste in melancholy rain sounds.”

  I looked at Lyra, then back at the ghost. “…So if we don’t say your name, do you just… hang around being dramatic?”

  “Basically.”

  “…Cool.”

  “Super cool,” it agreed, crossing its non-existent arms. “Anyway, since introductions are off the table, can I interest you two in a haunting? Or a minor mystery? I’ve got options. Very seasonal.”