I did the only rational thing a thirty-five-year-old corporate survivor would do. I ignored the immediate crisis and focused on the person shouting at me.
"Sine theta squared plus cosine theta squared equals one," I deadpanned, my voice cracking with a puberty-induced squeak that mortified my soul. "So X is forty-five degrees."
Henderson paused, the chalk hovering mid-air. He looked disappointed that he couldn't give me detention. "Correct. But sit up straight. You look like a slacker."
Buddy, I was managing a team of twenty while you were grading papers, I thought, but I slumped back into my chair.
The distraction worked, sort of. The ghost hand didn't let go, but the pressure eased slightly, as if the spirit was confused by my lack of fear. I wasn't afraid. I was annoyed. I’d dealt with HR audits scarier than this.
I took a deep breath and scanned the room, really looking this time.
That’s when the world shifted.
It was like putting on 3D glasses. The air was filled with static—tiny, floating motes of gray dust that weren't dust at all. They were clinging to the students.
Kevin, the glue-eater, had a small, monkey-like creature sitting on his shoulder, whispering into his ear. It looked made of heavy gray smog. Above its head, a faint label flickered in my vision: [Minor Spirit: Exam Anxiety].
I shifted my gaze to the girl in the front row. Sarah. She was furiously texting under her desk. Wrapped around her wrists were spectral chains, weighing her hands down. Label: [Minor Spirit: Social Pressure].
Spirit Sight, I realized. My brain supplied the term instantly, like a pop-up window. I can see the stress. It’s literal.
"Great," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "I'm not just a time traveler; I'm a janitor for the supernatural."
But then my eyes landed on the desk directly in front of me.
The figure sitting there was surrounded by a faint, golden glow, pushing back the gray static of the room. Perfect posture. A scent of vanilla shampoo that hit me like a physical punch to the gut.
Elara.
My heart hammered against my ribs—a frantic, erratic rhythm that had nothing to do with ghosts.
In my first life, Elara was the "one who got away." Not because she rejected me, but because she died. Graduation night. A firework accident that wasn't really an accident. I spent fifteen years replaying that night, wondering if I could have stopped it if I hadn't been such a coward, if I had just walked her home.
She was alive. She was right there.
I reached out, my hand trembling. I just wanted to tap her shoulder. To verify she was solid. To make sure this wasn't the cruelest hallucination of all.
As my finger brushed the fabric of her blazer, she stiffened.
She turned around slowly.
Elara’s face was exactly as I remembered, yet somehow higher definition. Dark eyes that could cut glass, high cheekbones, and an expression of mild disgust that she reserved exclusively for me.
"Ren," she said. Her voice was cool, crisp, and terrifying. "If you're going to stare at the back of my head, could you at least do it without heavy breathing? It’s disturbing the atmosphere."
I opened my mouth to speak. To say I missed you. To say I’m sorry. To say buy Bitcoin.
"I..." I choked.
"Wipe your face," she whispered, sliding a pristine white handkerchief onto my desk. "You're bleeding."
I touched my nose. My fingers came away red. The ghost hand under the desk had tightened its grip again, and evidently, the spiritual drain was blowing a fuse in my physical body.
"Thanks," I managed, grabbing the handkerchief.
"Don't thank me," she said, turning back to the board. "Just don't pass out. It would be inconvenient for my concentration."
Classic Elara. Cold as ice, but she gave me the handkerchief.
I wiped my nose, feeling a strange mix of nostalgia and self-loathing. But as she turned away, I saw it.
It wasn't a monkey or chains. It was hovering directly above her head, glowing in neon red numerals that looked disturbingly like a stock ticker.
179 Days, 23 Hours, 59 Minutes.
It was counting down.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
My blood ran cold. The gray smog in the room seemed to darken, swirling around her like sharks sensing blood in the water. She didn't have a minor anxiety spirit attached to her. She was a beacon. And something way, way bigger than exam stress was coming for her.
The ghost hand on my ankle squeezed hard enough to bruise.
I grabbed a mechanical pencil and stabbed it viciously into the rotting hand under my desk. The pencil snapped, but the hand recoiled with a silent shriek that vibrated in my molars.
System Alert, my brain chimed in, sounding suspiciously like my old Outlook calendar notification. New Objective: Keep the girl alive. Deadline: 180 Days.
I looked at the chalkboard, then at the timer, then at the ghost fading back into the floor tiles.
"I hate high school," I whispered.
I picked up my pen. Time to get to work.
16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡllAXLdsIx5
16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDJGinpBb5v
Closing Note：I’m stuck on a plot point! Help me decide the Heroine's next move on our Discord: unplot_joshua.
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.