"Miss Reilly." Tom had materialized at her desk just as she was reaching for her thousandth file (or was it her millionth? Time was meaningless, after all). "The work day is complete."

  "The what now?" Piper blinked at him. "We have work days here? Since when?"

  "Since always." His mustache twitched. "You may return home."

  "So wait, what? A 'work day' is a thousand weeks or what?" She gestured at the massive stack of processed files. "Because I've been here for... I mean, it has to have been months. Maybe years? I've processed more souls than there are people in Cincinnati!"

  "Time is—"

  "Yeah, yeah, meaningless in the afterlife." She slumped in her chair. "But what am I supposed to do at home? There's nothing there."

  Tom just vanished, leaving her alone with her unanswered questions.

  And now here she was, pacing her afterlife apartment, which was somehow both exactly like and nothing like her real home. She flopped onto the couch, then sat up straight.

  "What the hell?" She bounced slightly. The cushions had exactly the right amount of give. Not too soft, not too firm. Perfect.

  Experimentally, she put her feet up on the coffee table — something she'd always avoided in life because it was just slightly too high, making her ankles ache after a few minutes.

  "Oh come ON." The table was the exact right height. Her legs rested at a perfectly comfortable angle.

  Everything was slightly off - not in a bad way, but in an uncanny, too-perfect way. Even the temperature was exactly comfortable. It was infuriating.

  "I miss being uncomfortable," she announced to the empty room. "I miss having a crick in my neck from falling asleep watching TV. I miss burning my tongue on too-hot coffee."

  She flopped onto the too-perfect couch. "I even miss doomscrolling Reddit."

  Grim appeared on the coffee table, knocking over a stack of magazines that definitely hadn't been there a moment ago.

  "Oh, now what?" Piper sat up. "You're bringing me reading material? What's next, a Kindle? Netflix? Maybe a—"

  She stopped. Among the scattered magazines was a cream-colored envelope she recognized. The wedding invitation.

  "How did you..." She reached for it, then pulled her hand back. "No. You can't just bring things from life into... wherever this is. That's not how this works."

  Grim began meticulously cleaning his paw.

  "Is it?" she asked, less certain.

  The cat ignored her.

  Piper picked up the invitation. It felt real. The paper was thick, expensive. She ran her finger over the embossed letters: "Sarah Elizabeth Reilly and David Chen request the honor of your presence..."

  She'd barely looked at it the first time. Had shoved it away along with her bills and her discomfort and her...

  Her breath caught. There was a photo.

  Sarah stood radiant in a simple sundress, her hair falling in soft waves. When had she grown it out? And those breasts - had to be implants, right? Parker had been flat as a board last time she'd seen... her. The word came reluctantly, but it came. And somehow her sister looked more feminine than Piper ever had, which was... that was...

  And David. He was handsome in an understated way, with kind eyes and a gentle smile. But what caught Piper's attention was how they were looking at each other. Like they were sharing a secret. Like they were the only two people in the world.

  "Well, shit," Piper muttered.

  She thought about her own marriage, brief and forgettable as it had been. Eight months of trying to be the perfect wife to a man who'd wanted her to be... someone else. Anyone else. They'd both been relieved when it ended.

  "At least I didn't have kids," she told Grim. "Can you imagine? Me, a mother? I couldn't even keep a marriage together for a year."

  The cat gave her a look that seemed unnecessarily judgmental.

  "Don't start," she warned him. "I know what you're thinking. 'Oh, Piper rejected her sister's happiness while being miserable herself, how ironic.'" She affected a posh British accent for the last part.

  Grim continued staring.

  "It's not the same thing," she insisted. "My marriage ended because we weren't right for each other. Sarah and David..." She looked at the photo again. "They look right for each other."

  Her chest felt tight. "They look happy."

  The invitation began to glow softly.

  "What the—" Piper almost dropped it as golden numbers appeared above it: +500 points.

  "Are you kidding me?" she demanded. "Five hundred points for what? Finally admitting my sister looks good in a dress?"

  The numbers flickered: +750 points.

  "Now you're just messing with me." She squinted at the cat. "Is this you? Are you doing this?"

  Grim yawned and vanished.

  "Real helpful," Piper muttered. She looked at the invitation again, at Sarah's radiant smile. "I should have been there," she whispered.

  The numbers glowed brighter: +1000 points.

  "Okay, this is ridiculous." Piper stood up, still holding the invitation. "I can't just sit here earning points for feeling bad about things I can't change. I need to... I need to..."

  She needed to work. Needed to process more files. Needed to understand.

  Her apartment door, which normally led to nowhere since she didn't need to go anywhere, suddenly opened into the familiar endless room of filing cabinets.

  "Now that's more like it," she said, heading to her desk. Her nameplate gleamed: "Piper Reilly, Soul Processing Specialist, 3,250 points."

  She blinked. That couldn't be right. She'd only had 1,500 this morning. Or... was it morning? How long had she been staring at that invitation?

  Time was meaningless in the afterlife. Right.

  Her "In" box was overflowing with new files. Standard soul processing, not rehabilitation cases. She picked up the first one.

  "Okay, Elisabeth Chen, let's see what you've got." She opened the file, then stopped. "Chen? Any relation to..."

  But no, this Elisabeth had died in 1954. Just a coincidence.

  Still, something about the file caught her attention. Elisabeth had earned points for standing up to her family's expectations, for choosing love over tradition, for...

  "Oh," Piper breathed. Elisabeth had married outside her race in 1940s America. Had faced discrimination and hatred and had loved anyway.

  She'd earned over 10,000 points in life.

  "How?" Piper whispered. "How did you stay so... sure? When everyone was telling you that you were wrong?"

  The file began to glow softly, and Piper realized she was crying. Actually crying, even though she didn't technically have tear ducts anymore.

  She processed the file, really processed it, understanding Elisabeth's courage, her determination, her love. The small ding of points being awarded seemed louder than usual.

  The next file was for a Muslim man who'd earned points protecting a synagogue from vandals. Then a Catholic priest who'd secretly performed same-sex unions in the 1980s. A Hindu woman who'd opened her home to Pakistan refugees during Partition.

  Each file glowed as she processed it. Each ding grew louder.

  Her point total ticked up steadily: 3,300... 3,400... 3,500...

  "Miss Reilly."

  She looked up to find Tom standing at her desk, but something was different. His bushy eyebrows—which Piper had always thought resembled twin caterpillars performing synchronized swimming—were raised slightly, creating an expression she'd never seen on his usually stern face. His eyes, typically hidden beneath those formidable brows, held a warmth that transformed his entire countenance. Had she done something... right?

  "I've been observing your work this shift," he said, his voice carrying a note of what might have been respect. "Most souls process files to accumulate points. You're actually... understanding them."

  Piper blinked, caught off guard by this unexpected glimpse of humanity in her Victorian supervisor.

  "Time for your break," he added, straightening his bow tie as if embarrassed by his momentary display of emotion. But the warmth lingered in his eyes, surprising her more than any bureaucratic rule ever could.

  "But I just started," she protested.

  "You've been processing files for six shifts."

  "That's impossible. I just sat down."

  "Time is—"

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  "—meaningless in the afterlife." Piper sighed. "Fine. But I'm coming right back. These files... they're important."

  Tom's mustache definitely twitched with approval this time.

  As she headed to the break room, she realized she was still holding Sarah's wedding invitation. Somehow, it felt heavier than before. Weightier. Like it meant something she was only beginning to understand.

  "Time for my next empathy lesson?" she asked it.

  The invitation didn't answer, but somewhere, she could have sworn she heard a cat purring.

  The break room was buzzing with activity when she arrived. Maya's outfit was cycling through various therapist archetypes—cardigans and sensible shoes giving way to bohemian scarves and back again. Wei was flickering in and out of solidity as usual, caught mid-lecture about quantum entanglement to a group of souls who were clearly trying to edge away. Fatima sat quietly in the corner, the galaxies in her hijab spinning particularly fast today.

  "Well, well," Maya said, her outfit settling on something that looked suspiciously like a psychology professor's blazer with elbow patches. "Look who's processing high-emotion cases today."

  Piper froze. "What are you talking about?"

  "Oh honey," Maya's outfit shifted to something soft and maternal. "We can all see it on you. That glow souls get when they're starting to actually understand rather than just process."

  "Is it that obvious?" Piper dropped into a chair, the wedding invitation still clutched in her hand.

  "You're practically radiating empathy," Fatima said, her voice gentle. "It's quite beautiful, actually."

  "I hate it," Piper muttered, but without her usual bite.

  Wei solidified enough to peer at her. "According to the multiverse theorem, there are infinite versions of you who never reached this point of understanding," he offered. "Statistically speaking, your current state of emotional growth is highly improbable."

  "Thanks... I think?" Piper said.

  Maya noticed the invitation in Piper's hand. "Someone special?"

  Piper's grip tightened. "My sister. Her wedding. I... didn't go."

  The room went quiet. Even Wei stopped flickering for a moment.

  "The point system does weigh family choices rather heavily," Fatima said carefully.

  "Yeah, well, I'm learning that the hard way." Piper sighed. "I just keep thinking about all those rehabilitation cases. How they chose certainty over love, just like I did."

  "The recognition of patterns across souls is the first step toward cosmic understanding," Wei nodded sagely.

  "In English, please?" Piper asked.

  "He means you're growing," Maya translated, her outfit settling into something that reminded Piper of Mr. Rogers. "And growth hurts sometimes."

  "I'd say it's more like cosmic karma finally kicking my ass," Piper muttered, but she was smiling slightly.

  "Same difference," Maya winked.

  A soft bell chimed, signaling the end of break time.

  "Back to the grind," Piper sighed, standing up. But something had shifted in her. These strange, fluctuating souls with their quirks and wisdom no longer felt like bizarre afterlife oddities. They felt like... friends?

  When she returned to her desk, something was different. A single file lay in the center, glowing softly with an inner light unlike any of the others she'd processed.

  "Piper Reilly," the label read. Her own name, her own file.

  "That's... not possible," she whispered. "I'm not dead. I mean, I am dead, but I'm here. You can't process your own file."

  Grim appeared on her desk, his yellow eyes fixed on hers, paws delicately positioned on the edge of the file as if offering it to her.

  "This is a joke, right?" She glanced around for Tom or Asher, expecting one of them to materialize with some cryptic explanation. But no one came.

  Just her and Grim and the glowing file that bore her name.

  With trembling hands, she opened it.

  The world didn't dissolve the way it had with other files. Instead, it sharpened, everything coming into painfully clear focus. Her life - not as a detached observer, but as herself, reliving every moment, every choice, every consequence.

  Young Piper, seven years old, fiercely protective of her three-year-old brother Parker. Confronting a neighborhood bully who'd knocked over his blocks. "Nobody hurts my little brother!" she'd declared, standing tall despite her fear.

  +100 points: Authentic protection of vulnerable souls

  Eleven-year-old Piper, patiently teaching Parker to ride a bike. "It's okay to be scared," she'd told him. "Being brave means doing it anyway."

  +75 points: Nurturing courage in others

  Sixteen-year-old Piper, sitting with Parker after his first heartbreak. "Some people just don't get how awesome you are," she'd said, offering ice cream and understanding. "Their loss."

  +150 points: Creating safe space for emotional vulnerability

  Then, the shift. Parker at eighteen, sitting nervously on the edge of Piper's bed. "I need to tell you something, Pipe. Something I've known for a long time..."

  Piper saw herself getting up, making an excuse about homework. The confusion on Parker's face. The hurt.

  Choice point missed. -100 points: Choosing comfort over connection

  Parker trying again, a week later. "Piper, please. I need my big sister right now."

  Piper busying herself with college applications, not looking up. "Can it wait? I'm super busy."

  Choice point missed. -150 points: Refusing to see another's truth

  The memories accelerated, each one more painful than the last. The moment Parker finally managed to tell her, shaking with both courage and fear: "I'm transgender, Piper. I'm... I'm a woman. I've always been a woman."

  Piper's response - cold, dismissive. "This is just another one of your phases. Like when you wanted to be a rock star, or when you went vegan for three weeks."

  -500 points: Denying another's authentic self

  Parker in tears: "This isn't a phase. This is who I am. Who I've always been."

  Piper, turning away: "You're confused. You've been reading too much of that liberal crap online. You'll grow out of it."

  -750 points: Using certainty as a weapon

  The unanswered calls. The returned letters. The social media blocks. Each one a knife twist to Parker - to Sarah - who kept trying, kept reaching out despite the rejection.

  Sarah's transition photos, which Piper had refused to look at when their mother tried to show her. "I don't need to see my brother playing dress-up," she'd said, causing her mother to cry.

  -300 points: Causing collateral pain to shared loved ones

  Then, most painful of all, the wedding invitation. Sarah had sent it four times, each one returned unopened. "I don't have a sister," Piper had told the mail carrier the last time. "Stop bringing these."

  -1000 points: Rejecting a soul's most vulnerable offering

  But interwoven with the mistakes were moments Piper had forgotten. Little threads of connection she'd severed from her memory because they didn't fit her narrative of righteous rejection.

  Piper, secretly looking up Sarah's social media from a fake account. Seeing her smile in her new life and feeling a moment of... what? Relief? Maybe even happiness that her sibling looked so at peace?

  +25 points: Moment of authentic seeing

  Piper, defending Sarah against their uncle's cruel jokes at Thanksgiving. "At least Parker's doing something with his life," she'd snapped. "What have you accomplished lately besides casual bigotry?"

  +250 points: Standing for truth despite personal contradiction

  Piper, keeping a childhood photo of them together on her bedside table even as she pretended Sarah no longer existed.

  +75 points: Honoring connection even while denying it

  The final memory was the most unexpected. Piper on her porch, cigarette in hand, thinking about the wedding invitation she'd shoved under a pile of bills. Thinking, just for a moment, about what it might be like to call Sarah. To hear her voice. To say...

  What? That she was sorry? That she missed her? That she was afraid of a world where the most fundamental things she thought she knew could change?

  Grim had appeared then, watching her with those knowing yellow eyes. Had he somehow sensed that moment of almost-openness? Had he known she was finally, finally on the verge of reaching out?

  Choice point interrupted. Life ended before resolution.

  The world slowly came back into focus, Piper's office materializing around her. The file lay open on her desk, its glow now dimmed.

  "Oh," she whispered, the single syllable containing oceans of understanding. "Oh, God."

  She closed the file with shaking hands, tear tracks on her cheeks that she didn't bother to wipe away.

  "I was so afraid," she said to the empty office. "So afraid that if Sarah could change something as fundamental as gender, then nothing was certain. Nothing was solid. Everything I thought I knew could just... dissolve."

  Grim reappeared, settling on the edge of her desk with unusual gentleness.

  "But that's the thing, isn't it?" Piper continued, addressing the cat as if he were the only one who could possibly understand. "Some things did stay the same. Sarah was still the same person who loved fantasy novels and hated cilantro and laughed too loud at bad jokes. All the important stuff - her kindness, her courage, her heart - that was all still there."

  The cat blinked slowly in what might have been encouragement.

  "I was so busy being right that I couldn't see what was right in front of me." Piper's voice broke. "My sister. My little sister who needed me, who kept trying to reach me even when I'd made it abundantly clear I didn't want to be reached. Who still sent that stupid wedding invitation even though she knew... she knew I'd reject it."

  Her point total began to glow: +2,500 points.

  For once, Piper didn't question it, didn't make a sarcastic comment about cosmic inflation. She knew exactly why those points had been awarded. For understanding, truly understanding, the damage she'd done. And for feeling, truly feeling, the weight of it.

  "I need to find her," she said, standing up suddenly. "Is she... is she here? In the afterlife?" She looked around wildly, as if Sarah might materialize at any moment. "Or did she... is she still alive?"

  Grim just watched her, yellow eyes unreadable.

  "I need to make this right," Piper insisted. "I need to tell her I'm sorry. That I was wrong. That I was scared and small and that she deserved so much better. I need to—"

  "Miss Reilly."

  Tom materialized, but not with his usual stiff formality. He seemed almost hesitant, the perpetual straight line of his shoulders slightly curved. His ever-present pocket watch remained tucked away, as if time—even meaningless afterlife time—didn't matter in this moment.

  "You've processed your own file," he said quietly. For once, his mustache didn't twitch with disapproval or bureaucratic precision. Instead, he reached up and straightened it manually, a surprisingly human gesture of uncertainty. "That's... unexpected."

  Piper noticed something she'd never seen before—the faintest hint of crow's feet around his eyes, as if somewhere in his endless afterlife existence, Tom had actually smiled enough to create wrinkles. His Victorian stiffness had softened, revealing glimpses of whoever he had been before becoming the personification of bureaucratic procedure.

  "Tom!" She grabbed his arm, not caring about propriety or protocol or whatever bureaucratic nonsense usually governed their interactions. "My sister. Sarah. I need to find her. Is she here? Can I see her?"

  Tom's gaze flickered to the glowing point total above her head. "You're at 5,750 points now. That's... significant progress."

  "I don't care about the points!" Piper's voice rose. "I care about Sarah! About making things right!"

  Tom's mustache twitched thoughtfully. "There are options available to souls at your point level that weren't available before."

  "What options? What are you talking about?"

  "Reincarnation," came Asher's voice as they materialized beside Tom, their form shifting between what looked like various religious icons of rebirth. "With your current point total, you could choose to be reborn."

  "What good does that do me?" Piper demanded. "I'd forget everything! I'd forget Sarah, forget what I did to her, forget that I need to make amends!"

  "Not necessarily," Asher said cryptically. "There are... certain attributes one can purchase. Certain... memories one can retain."

  Piper stared at them. "Are you saying I could... remember? In my next life? Remember Sarah and... and everything?"

  "For a price," Tom said. "It would cost most of your accumulated points."

  "Do it," Piper said instantly. "Whatever it costs. I need another chance. Not just to say I'm sorry, but to be better. To be the sister she deserved the first time around."

  The numbers above her head glowed brighter, adding another 500 points even as she spoke.

  Tom and Asher exchanged looks. "Perhaps," Tom said cautiously, "we should discuss the full range of options available to a soul at your point level."

  "Later," Piper said firmly. "Right now, I want to know everything about reincarnation. About how to remember. About how to find her again."

  Grim purred, the sound filling the office like music. For the first time since arriving in the afterlife, Piper felt something like hope.

  Not just for herself, but for the sister she'd failed. The sister she wouldn't fail again, no matter how many lives it took to make things right.