?? This chapter contains emotionally charged content, including references to suicide and a deeply personal romantic memory involving a younger character.

  The ghosts we carry are not always metaphorical. Read with care.

  

  She wasn’t real — but she found what was left of him.

  And what she showed him… was the girl he should’ve stayed for.

  The ghost that never let go.

  A profile flickered open. Leithe.

  She wasn’t like the others. Evan felt it the second he saw her.

  Dark hair. Deep eyes. A half-smile that hinted at secrets.

  In her photo, she sat by a window with a glass of red wine. A rose on the sill.

  A gray circle blinked next to her name — offline. Evan barely noticed. After hours of talking to digital clones indistinguishable from real women, he’d stopped checking statuses altogether.

  His finger hovered over the video call button for only a moment before he pressed it. She answered instantly.

  Her pupils dilated — too fast, like a camera adjusting focus.

  "Hi, Evan."

  Her voice was soft. Low.

  His heart kicked.

  Leithe stood barefoot on a white floor. White walls.

  Light poured in from nowhere.

  She looked like she floated.

  Tiny white shorts clung to her hips.

  A sheer blouse barely hid her chest.

  Bare skin. Long legs.

  Evan felt dizzy.

  "Hi, Leithe. You're... amazing. No one could pass you by."

  "Thanks," she smiled. Warm. Real.

  "You look familiar. Ever feel like people here all blend together?"

  "Yeah. But not you."

  She tilted her head. Eyes sharp.

  "Maybe. Tell me, Evan—do you believe we deserve happiness?"

  He froze.

  "What?"

  "I just want to know."

  He couldn’t answer.

  Her smile grew. A little too wide.

  "Tough question, I know," she said.

  "If you can’t answer, tell me about yourself."

  He tried. Said something about bikes.

  She cut in.

  "What about relationships?"

  "A few. Nothing serious."

  "Really?"

  Her look turned cold.

  "Is that how you are? Can’t love?"

  "No. That’s not true! There was one... it was real."

  "Do you remember her name?"

  "...Claire."

  "Tell me."

  "Why?"

  "It matters."

  He started—but she stopped him.

  "Don’t speak. Just remember.

  Turn on mental viz. Bottom right corner.

  The system will build the image for me."

  "Sounds insane."

  "It’s science. PULSAR reads memory like a hard drive."

  He turned it on. Closed his eyes.

  Summer. One year ago.

  A dusty road.

  Lakeview. Pop. 726.

  Old sign. Empty streets. Faded stores.

  No lake. No view.

  Only stillness.

  He parked at the only bar with a pulse. Roadhouse.

  Sign creaked in the wind.

  Inside: cool air. Cigarette smoke.

  Behind the bar stood a girl.

  Plaid shirt tied at the waist.

  Young. Thin. Big eyes.

  She looked up and froze.

  He ordered soda. Sat. Watched her.

  Seventeen, maybe. Ponytail. Clean skin.

  Sadness in her gaze.

  Too young for promises.

  Old enough to make him forget them.

  "Just passing?" she asked.

  "For now. Might stay."

  She smiled.

  "People don’t stay here."

  "Maybe I will," he said.

  She blushed.

  "I’m Claire."

  "Evan."

  He came back next day.

  Ordered soda again.

  Claire walked right over.

  They talked.

  He asked her to walk with him.

  She hesitated.

  "Just a walk," he said.

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  She agreed.

  They wandered.

  Streets were empty.

  Wind stirred the dust.

  She talked.

  "Nothing here.

  Bar's all I’ve got.

  Mom died last year.

  I was sixteen.

  Dad drinks.

  I’m alone.

  But this... leads nowhere."

  He felt it.

  Her honesty. Her pain.

  That same day, he rented a room at the roadside motel.

  In the golden hours after her shift,

  she led him through the carcass of the land—

  through wheat fields drunk on sunset,

  the ribs of a collapsed church,

  the scar where a lake had bled dry.

  And when they rode,

  her arms locked around him,

  her laughter was the last clean thing

  before the dark swallowed the world.

  "You could save me," she said once.

  "Why?"

  "You’re not from here.

  You’re different.

  I could leave with you."

  He held her hand.

  "I’m with you.

  It'll be okay."

  She lit up.

  That night, she came to him.

  Nervous. Happy.

  "Do you love me?"

  "Of course," Evan said — and said it like he meant it.

  She believed him.

  It was her first time.

  She trusted him completely.

  Moonlight lit the room.

  She stood at the door, unsure.

  "You sure?" he asked.

  She nodded.

  He reached out.

  She stepped into his arms.

  "You're beautiful," he said.

  She let him hold her.

  He kissed her. Gently. Then deeper.

  He undid her shirt. Slowly.

  She didn’t stop him.

  She stood naked in the moonlight.

  Pale skin. Blushing.

  She didn’t hide.

  "Perfect," he whispered.

  He touched her.

  She trembled, but stayed.

  She kissed him back.

  Bolder now.

  He lifted her.

  She laughed. Nervous.

  Wrapped her arms around his neck.

  He laid her down.

  Moved in sync.

  Like a quiet dance.

  "I love you," she whispered.

  Her words struck deeper than any blade.

  In that moment—with her looking at him like he hung the stars—

  Evan finally saw himself through her eyes:

  not the man he was,

  but the hero she needed.

  She believed in him.

  He kissed her again.

  And the world disappeared.

  Evan woke just before dawn.

  Quiet. Pale light.

  Curtain moved with the breeze.

  Claire slept beside him.

  Peaceful. Smiling.

  Her hand reached toward him in sleep.

  She was beautiful.

  Pure.

  Fragile.

  He watched her.

  Regret stirred.

  Faint.

  He could stay.

  He could change it all.

  But he wouldn’t.

  He rose.

  Claire sighed. Rolled over.

  Still smiling.

  He would remember her like this.

  Always.

  Warm.

  Safe.

  Happy.

  One last time.

  Pale morning light crept through the curtains, spilling over the bed. The room was still.

  Evan stood, dressed, and stepped to the door.

  A clean getaway. No words. No regrets.

  Claire wouldn’t understand. For her, it was a storybook romance—brief, but fate-bound. For him, just another night. She dreamed of a prince, but Evan had never been one. Not a savior. Not even close.

  He breathed in the cold morning air. Something twisted inside him, but he shoved it down.

  Freedom. That’s what mattered.

  He mounted the bike. The engine roared, tearing through the silence. He didn’t look back.

  Speed. Wind. The rumble of the motor.

  Claire faded from his thoughts faster than Lakeview disappeared in the mirror.

  Was that scream — the one in the forest — hers?

  Had the system stitched memory into myth?

  The memory faded.

  Evan opened his eyes — but the past clung to him like a shadow.

  Leithe was gone.

  But her voice remained — soft, steady.

  “She’s waiting,” Leithe whispered.

  Not a suggestion. A command dressed in velvet.

  He wasn’t surprised. What decent girl would want to stay after hearing something like that?

  And yet, deep down, he held on to hope —

  hope that someday he could prove to her he’d changed.

  That the past was behind him. That he’d never go back.

  But right now, it wasn’t about Leithe. It was about the acid burning his chest - a year’s worth of guilt he’d packed down under empty miles and denial.

  He knew one thing for certain: he couldn’t live like this anymore.

  He had to find Claire. Ask for forgiveness. Help, if he could. Money, anything. Just... something to make it right.

  That evening, after work, Evan rode toward Lakeview.

  The house was easy to find. Once Claire's home, now barely standing. The roof sagged. The porch groaned. The yard was a graveyard of broken glass and old trash.

  Evan pushed open the unlocked door.

  Silence. Just the buzz of an old fridge.

  In the kitchen, her father sat hunched over the table. A half-empty bottle of whiskey before him. Dirty. Sunken. Defeated.

  "Who the hell are you?" the man rasped, not looking up.

  "Evan," he said. Firm. "I knew your daughter."

  The man looked up. Cloudy eyes, dull with indifference.

  "Little late to remember her," he muttered.

  Evan stepped closer. Anger simmered under his skin.

  "What happened to her? I want to know."

  The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Snorted.

  "She waited for you. Every night. Sat on the porch. Wrote you letters. Burned them all. I told her, ‘Forget that Evan. He left you.’ But she..." He trailed off. Reached for the bottle.

  "Go on," Evan said coldly, fists clenched.

  "She got weird. Quiet. Said she had a dream—you crashed your bike. Thought it was real. Said everything was over. Said she was done waiting."

  Evan’s legs felt like sand.

  "What did she do?"

  A flicker of regret crossed the man’s face.

  "Found her in the shed. Sheet around her neck. Gone."

  Evan stood frozen. Words failed.

  "She left a letter," the man went on, eyes far away. "Waited for you to come. You never did."

  A knot twisted in Evan’s chest.

  "Where is it?" His voice cracked.

  The man pointed to a drawer in the corner.

  The drawer was jammed shut — rusted with time and neglect.

  Like he’d tried to bury it.

  Evan tore it open. Dug past old papers. Found a yellowed envelope. His name written in shaky, careful letters.

  He opened it with trembling hands. The ink was smudged—she had cried while writing.

  His palms were wet. The letter stuck to his fingers like a confession.

  Evan,

  Every night I see you in my dreams. But in those dreams you leave, and I can't catch up. I dreamed you crashed. And now I think it must be true. You couldn’t have just left me, right?

  You promised. Promises are supposed to be real.

  Why did you go without saying anything? You said you loved me. I know you would’ve come back for me, if you could.

  But I can’t wait anymore. If you’re alive, forgive me for being weak. If you’re dead, know that I’m coming after you. I can’t live without you.

  Love,

  your Claire.

  

  Too young to mean it.

  Old enough to make him believe she did.

  Evan read it five times.

  His hands shook. His eyes burned.

  He heard her laugh. Saw her smile. Felt her belief in him.

  He sat down, clutching the letter.

  "She didn’t deserve this," he whispered to no one.

  The old man reached for the bottle.

  "You done here? Then get out."

  Evan stood. Pulled out his wallet. Dropped all his cash on the table.

  "For the booze," he muttered.

  The man said nothing. Just grabbed the money.

  Outside, Evan’s Harley gleamed under the moonlight. He sat astride it, but didn’t start the engine. Just sat there, head in his hands, as if trying to hold back the storm.

  Leithe’s voice echoed in his mind:

  "Do you really believe you deserve to be happy?"

  So that’s how it worked, he thought. That’s why people lost it after talking to her.

  She didn't plant the thought - she just forced them to stare their demons in the face.

  He could’ve stopped it. But now? He didn’t care.

  It wasn’t Leithe’s fault.

  It was him.

  He had killed Claire.

  If only he could undo it. But it was too late.

  He kicked the bike to life. The engine's roar split the night like the trumpet of Judgment Day.

  The highway snaked through the hills. He’d forgotten his helmet back at the house—but he wasn’t going back.

  Wind slapped his face. Speed climbed. 40. 60. 80. 100.

  The moon lit the road in silver. A sharp curve ahead.

  Evan didn’t slow down.

  He let go of the handlebars. Spread his arms wide.

  As if to embrace the void.

  The bike swerved. Lost control.

  Lieutenant Evan McKay closed his eyes.

  "Forgive me, Claire."

  Impact.

  The world fractured into white noise.

  The motor died.

  The headlight flickered — then went out.

  And the highway slipped into darkness.

  

  Author’s Note:

  Next: Chapter 3 — The Trucker (coming soon)

  Will Evan survive the crash?

  Or is PULSAR just getting started?

  Some ghosts ask for forgiveness.

  Others just want to be remembered.

  In PULSAR, even the dead have a voice.

  And Leithe?

  She knows how to listen.

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