Ghosts
The One Who Stayed
She hides my things. She sings in the dark. She's been with me for over a year. And she hasn't hurt me once.
The first time was the dream.
Summer of 2019. I was sixteen, staying up late playing games, finally crashing around two in the morning. And in that half-asleep space between consciousness and nothing, I heard her.
A woman's voice, singing something that didn't sound like any song I'd ever heard. Not pop. Not classical. Something older. The melody was beautiful in a way I couldn't describe—like wind through hollow wood, like water over stones. I tried to wake up but couldn't. I just lay there, listening, until the dream dissolved and I opened my eyes to grey morning light.
I forgot about it. Dreams are just dreams.
Then came the face wash.
November 2020. Dorm room. I reached into my basin for the bottle—there were maybe three things in there, it wasn't cluttered—and it wasn't there. I checked again, running my hand through the water and products, confirming. Nothing. I turned to my roommate and asked if he'd used it. He said no. I turned back around, and there it was. Right where it should have been. I'd literally just looked.
I laughed it off. But I didn't forget.
March 2021. Pandemic. Online classes. I was doing homework at my desk, headphones on but nothing playing—no music, no video, just silence. And then I heard it. Faint, maybe seven or eight seconds, but unmistakable—a woman's voice, humming something. Not words. Just sound. The same kind of sound I'd heard in that dream two years earlier.
I pulled the headphones off and it stopped. I sat there, heart pounding, listening to the empty room. My cat was asleep on the bed. The street outside was quiet. Nothing.
That same week, mice appeared in the house. Not one—three or four. My mom set traps. I started sleeping with the lights on.
July. Afternoon nap. I woke to sounds from the living room—voices, like someone talking, or maybe singing. I opened my bedroom door. Empty. Checked the front door, the courtyard gate. Locked. No one.
By then I'd started to wonder. Started to notice the pattern. Something was here, had been here, following me maybe, but not doing any harm. Not yet.
Two days ago, I took off my jade bracelet and set it on the living room sofa. Just that—one bracelet, a few clothes, nothing else. I went to wash my face. Came back. The bracelet was gone.
I searched. Under the cushions. Behind the sofa. In the gaps. I moved the furniture. Nothing. I told myself I'd find it tomorrow, went to bed.
The next morning, there it was. In the exact spot I'd left it, on top of the cushion, fully visible. I'd searched that sofa three times. It wasn't there. It couldn't not be there.
But there it was.
I thought about all of it—the dream, the face wash, the voice in the headphones, the sounds from the living room, the missing bracelet. The pattern was clear. Whatever was with me, it was playful. It moved things. It sang. And it had been doing this for over a year.
My grandmother would have said it was a protector. A spirit that had attached itself to me for reasons I didn't know. She would have said to leave it alone, not to provoke it, to be grateful it wasn't hostile.
Maybe she was right.
The voice in my headphones that day—it sounded like the same voice from my dream. The same woman. The same song. Seven seconds of sound, there and then gone, like she was testing whether I could still hear her.
Maybe I could.
I don't know what she wants. I don't know why she's chosen me, or what she's waiting for. But I know she's still here. And I'm not afraid anymore. Whatever she is—ghost, spirit, something in between—she hasn't hurt me yet.
If she wanted to harm me, she would have. Instead, she hides my face wash and makes my jewelry disappear and sings to me in the dark.
Maybe that's just her way of staying close.
Maybe that's how she protects me from whatever's out there.
I still don't know why. But I think I can wait to find out.
Some things reveal themselves in time.
Summer of 2019. I was sixteen, staying up late playing games, finally crashing around two in the morning. And in that half-asleep space between consciousness and nothing, I heard her.
A woman's voice, singing something that didn't sound like any song I'd ever heard. Not pop. Not classical. Something older. The melody was beautiful in a way I couldn't describe—like wind through hollow wood, like water over stones. I tried to wake up but couldn't. I just lay there, listening, until the dream dissolved and I opened my eyes to grey morning light.
I forgot about it. Dreams are just dreams.
Then came the face wash.
November 2020. Dorm room. I reached into my basin for the bottle—there were maybe three things in there, it wasn't cluttered—and it wasn't there. I checked again, running my hand through the water and products, confirming. Nothing. I turned to my roommate and asked if he'd used it. He said no. I turned back around, and there it was. Right where it should have been. I'd literally just looked.
I laughed it off. But I didn't forget.
March 2021. Pandemic. Online classes. I was doing homework at my desk, headphones on but nothing playing—no music, no video, just silence. And then I heard it. Faint, maybe seven or eight seconds, but unmistakable—a woman's voice, humming something. Not words. Just sound. The same kind of sound I'd heard in that dream two years earlier.
I pulled the headphones off and it stopped. I sat there, heart pounding, listening to the empty room. My cat was asleep on the bed. The street outside was quiet. Nothing.
That same week, mice appeared in the house. Not one—three or four. My mom set traps. I started sleeping with the lights on.
July. Afternoon nap. I woke to sounds from the living room—voices, like someone talking, or maybe singing. I opened my bedroom door. Empty. Checked the front door, the courtyard gate. Locked. No one.
By then I'd started to wonder. Started to notice the pattern. Something was here, had been here, following me maybe, but not doing any harm. Not yet.
Two days ago, I took off my jade bracelet and set it on the living room sofa. Just that—one bracelet, a few clothes, nothing else. I went to wash my face. Came back. The bracelet was gone.
I searched. Under the cushions. Behind the sofa. In the gaps. I moved the furniture. Nothing. I told myself I'd find it tomorrow, went to bed.
The next morning, there it was. In the exact spot I'd left it, on top of the cushion, fully visible. I'd searched that sofa three times. It wasn't there. It couldn't not be there.
But there it was.
I thought about all of it—the dream, the face wash, the voice in the headphones, the sounds from the living room, the missing bracelet. The pattern was clear. Whatever was with me, it was playful. It moved things. It sang. And it had been doing this for over a year.
My grandmother would have said it was a protector. A spirit that had attached itself to me for reasons I didn't know. She would have said to leave it alone, not to provoke it, to be grateful it wasn't hostile.
Maybe she was right.
The voice in my headphones that day—it sounded like the same voice from my dream. The same woman. The same song. Seven seconds of sound, there and then gone, like she was testing whether I could still hear her.
Maybe I could.
I don't know what she wants. I don't know why she's chosen me, or what she's waiting for. But I know she's still here. And I'm not afraid anymore. Whatever she is—ghost, spirit, something in between—she hasn't hurt me yet.
If she wanted to harm me, she would have. Instead, she hides my face wash and makes my jewelry disappear and sings to me in the dark.
Maybe that's just her way of staying close.
Maybe that's how she protects me from whatever's out there.
I still don't know why. But I think I can wait to find out.
Some things reveal themselves in time.