Tethered by Shadows, Chapter 2

The First Return

Chapter Two: The First Return

The funeral blurred.

Elara remembered only fragments: the weight of lilies in her hands, the priest’s voice muffled like someone speaking through water, the sharp scent of rain-soaked earth where they lowered Simon into the ground. People hugged her, their lips brushing her hair, their words soft and useless. He was so young. Such a good man. You’ll be okay.

She nodded, because that’s what they wanted. But inside she was a hollow shell, drifting through a world that no longer fit.

The apartment was worse. His jacket hung on the back of a chair, his shoes by the door. The coffee mug he had used the morning of the accident still sat in the sink, the ring of his lip’s shadow dried against the rim. Elara wandered the rooms, touching everything, books, sweaters, the pillow still carrying his scent, as if by touching she could keep him tethered.

But he wasn’t.

The silence pressed in until she couldn’t breathe. She left the lights on, left the television playing late-night reruns just to keep from hearing the absence of him.

Then the strange things began.

At first it was nothing more than flickers, a glimpse of movement in the corner of her eye, a whisper of Simon’s cologne when she opened the door. She told herself it was her mind clinging to him, her grief weaving shadows. But one night, two weeks after the funeral, she woke to the sound of laughter.

His laughter.

She sat up, heart hammering. The apartment was dark except for the streetlight spilling through the blinds, painting pale bars across the floor. The sound had already faded, but she knew. Every bone in her body knew.

“Simon?” Her voice cracked.

No answer.

She pressed her hands to her face, ashamed of the part of her that hoped.

The next morning, as she reached for the light switch in the kitchen, the bulb flared too bright, then fizzled out with a soft pop. She stared at the dead bulb, goosebumps prickling her arms. Simon had always teased her about never changing them until the very last moment. You’re going to be cooking in the dark one of these days, El.

That night she dreamed of him.

He stood by the river, hands in his pockets, smiling as though nothing had happened. “You look tired,” he said.

“It’s because you’re gone,” she whispered.

He tilted his head, as if considering that, then reached for her. She felt the brush of his fingers, warm, solid, before the dream collapsed and she woke with tears streaming down her face.

The dreams came again the following night. And the next. Each time, Simon was clearer, more present, until it was no longer just dreams.

On the fourth night, she woke to find him standing at the foot of her bed.

Her breath caught. He looked the same: hair messy, eyes tired but kind, that crooked smile tugging at his mouth. He wasn’t glowing or transparent. He was simply there.

“Simon?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“Hey, El.” His tone was calm, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

She pressed her hands against the blanket, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears. “I’m losing my mind.”

“You’re not.” He took a step closer. His form shimmered faintly, as though the air around him bent with light, but he was solid enough to kneel by the bed. “I couldn’t leave you unprotected.”

Her throat ached. “You’re dead.”

“I know.” His smile was sad now. “And yet, here I am.”

She reached out before she could stop herself, fingers trembling. Her hand passed through his shoulder like mist, though for an instant she felt warmth. A spark.

She gasped, pulling back.

Simon didn’t move away. He just watched her with that steady gaze that had always disarmed her. “I don’t understand it either. But I know this much: something won’t let me go. And until it does, I’m staying with you.”

Tears blurred her vision. “You shouldn’t be here. You’re supposed to be—” She broke off, unable to say the word.

“At peace?” His smile softened. “Maybe I would be. But El, I think you need me more.”

She buried her face in her hands. The ache in her chest was unbearable, grief and relief tangled into one.

Simon stayed by her bed the whole night. When dawn came, he was gone. But the room still hummed with his presence, like the air after a thunderstorm.

Days passed. He appeared again and again: in the kitchen while she made tea, on the balcony as she watered the plants he used to joke about murdering, sitting beside her on the couch while she read. Sometimes he said nothing, only offered a smile. Other times, he talked, about the weather, about how much he missed the smell of coffee, about how she needed to stop skipping meals.

It was almost normal, except for the way he flickered if she stared too long, like a candle struggling against wind.

Elara told no one. Who would believe her? Even Mariah, who believed in tarot cards and spirits, would think grief had cracked her open too far. So she kept Simon a secret, a fragile thread binding her days together.

But the dreams grew stranger. She began to see other faces, men she had loved once, their images blurring in and out. Jason with his boyish grin. Adrian with his ink-stained hands. She would wake in sweat, heart pounding, as if the past itself were pulling at her.

One night, after Simon vanished with the dawn, she whispered to the empty room, “Why you? Why not them?”

The shadows gave no answer.

But something in her bones told her: this was only the beginning.