The apartment above the bookstore was dim and quiet when they returned. June turned on a single lamp in the living room, casting a soft, amber glow over the shelves, the tiny couch, and the coffee table cluttered with old books and unopened mail.
Peter hovered near the window, taking it all in. "You live here?"
June nodded, toeing off her boots. "Since college."
"It's... cozy," Peter offered.
"It's small," June replied. "But yeah. Cozy."
Lily floated lazily through the ceiling, flipping upside down before dropping into the room like a feather. "Home sweet haunted home!"
Peter glanced around, suddenly realizing something. "Wait... where do I sleep?"
Lily burst into laughter. "Sleep? Oh no, ghosts don't sleep."
Peter blinked. "Seriously?"
"No REM cycles in the afterlife," she said with a grin. "You're running on eternal vibes now."
Peter looked to June for confirmation.
She shrugged, setting her keys on the counter. "She's not wrong."
Peter sighed and looked around again, his shoulders slumping slightly. "So I just... float around all night?"
June tossed him a glance as she headed toward the hallway. "You can hang around. Just keep your ghostly wandering away from my bedroom."
Peter held up his hands. "Noted."
Lily giggled and vanished halfway through the wall.
Peter stood in the middle of the apartment, hands in his pockets, unsure of what to do. June had disappeared down the hall, and Lily had gone off to do—well, whatever it was ghosts did when they weren't floating through people or cracking jokes.
He wandered toward the wall, curiosity tugging at him. Tentatively, he leaned forward and pressed his face into it.
Or rather, through it.
His vision went blurry for a moment, like looking underwater—then clear. He was staring out at the alley beside the bookstore, his head poking through the brick. A stray cat slinked across the dumpster, and someone's laundry flapped from a second-floor fire escape. A strange thrill ran through him. Weird. Unnatural. Kind of fun.
He pulled back, blinking as the apartment came into focus again.
"Right," he muttered. "That's a thing now."
Next, he tried the couch. He sat—sort of. His body didn't settle like it used to. Instead, he hovered just above the cushions, like the air was doing its best impression of support. He leaned back experimentally and felt... something. It wasn't comfort, exactly, but it wasn't uncomfortable either. Just another strange new normal.
The TV buzzed to life in the corner. June must've left it on for him and Lily—some old sitcom rerun playing at low volume. Peter watched a minute or two before slumping forward.
None of it landed. The laugh track felt hollow, the jokes too predictable. It was a reminder of what he'd lost—not just his life, but his connection to the little things that used to fill the space between moments.
He was about to float aimlessly through the ceiling when Lily's head suddenly popped up from the floor beside him.
"TV's boring, huh?"
Peter nodded. "Kinda hard to care about punchlines when you're dead."
"Yeah," she said. "That takes a while to get over. Come on—I'll show you something better."
Without waiting, she phased back down and beckoned for him to follow. Peter passed through the ceiling and floorboards after her, trailing her up the narrow back stairwell. The air was cooler up here, the stairs creaking under the weight of the building, but not under his feet.
Lily pushed through the final door, and they emerged onto the rooftop.
It wasn't a tall building—just two stories—but the view was still something. The city spread out before them in warm pockets of light, neon signs buzzing in the distance. Streetlamps pooled amber circles onto the pavement below. Above them, the sky was a deep blue canvas, scattered with stars that pulsed faintly between city clouds.
Peter stepped toward the edge, resting ghostly hands on the brick ledge out of habit. He stared out in silence.
"Nice, huh?" Lily said, floating cross-legged a few feet away. "I come up here a lot. It's quieter than the graveyard and less creepy than the basement."
Peter gave a small smile. "It's beautiful."
"Yeah. Sometimes, when I'm up here, I forget I'm dead."
Peter didn't respond. He just breathed in deeply out of habit, even if there was no breath to take, and let the view settle over him like a second skin.
It didn't make everything okay—but it helped.
Peter leaned on the low rooftop wall, eyes tracing the city lights. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The night was still. Quiet. It felt like they were suspended above the world—unseen, untouched.
Then he glanced over and noticed something had changed in Lily. She was sitting cross-legged midair, but her posture had slumped. Her bright energy had dulled, like a candle flickering in a breeze. And her outline—it was fainter now. Not much, but enough to notice. The edges of her figure weren't as crisp. It was like she'd faded a layer back.
"You okay?" Peter asked, frowning.
Lily didn't answer right away. She hugged her knees to her chest and stared out over the rooftops.
"How do you do it?" he asked gently. "Live like this... for so long?"
Lily gave a small, tired laugh—but there was no humor in it. "I don't, really. I just... keep going."
She looked older in that moment. Not in her face—still that same ten-year-old girl—but in her eyes. There was something worn-down behind them, like someone who'd watched too many seasons of a show with no ending.
"It stretches you," she said. "Being here like this. I didn't feel it at first. But after a while, it's like I'm made of thread and someone's been pulling me apart strand by strand."
Peter didn't know what to say. He had felt weightless since dying—but this was different. This wasn't freedom. This was erosion.
Lily blinked slowly, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer. "June doesn't know how much I see. Or how much I remember. I think she still thinks I'm just her kid sister... stuck in that day forever."
Peter looked at her, silent.
"She was just a little kid too," Lily continued. "But after I died... Mom couldn't handle it. She blamed herself—kept saying she should've been watching better, should've been there sooner, should've held my hand tighter. Over and over."
Her voice trembled slightly, and her image flickered again—just a pulse of light and shadow.
"She started drinking first. Then the pills came. Then it was both. She wasn't mean. Just... gone. Most of the time. Just trying to escape the pain. And then one day, she didn't wake up." Peter's chest felt tight, like the echo of breathlessness.
"She didn't come back," Lily said. "No ghost. No whisper. Just gone. I waited for weeks."
Peter didn't speak, didn't move.
"Our dad didn't take it well either, but not in the same way. He got quiet. Cold. Dropped June off with our cousin Gladys like she was a box of old clothes. Barely came around after that. Maybe once or twice a year."
"I'm so sorry," Peter said, his voice barely a whisper.
Lily shrugged, but even that looked weary. "It is what it is."
She turned to look at him, her eyes suddenly sharp again. "That's why I stayed. June didn't have anyone. I wasn't gonna leave her too."
Peter looked at her—truly looked. The fading glow, the tired posture, the weight she carried in silence.
"You've been holding all this... for her?"
Lily nodded. "She never really moved on. Not fully. Not emotionally. She grew up around me. With me. But I didn't grow up with her."
Peter felt the sting of that. Of time paused, of grief stretched over years like a veil.
He said nothing. Just sat beside her, silent, while the city breathed below.
Lily floated still, the faint light of a billboard flickering across her translucent form. For now, she wasn't the goofy, ghost-kicking kid. She was a sister, a witness to loss, and a guardian stretched too thin by years of love and guilt.
And Peter understood, more than ever before, that neither of them were really free.
Peter sat quietly for a moment, taking in the cityscape—the distant sound of traffic, the flicker of neon signs, the hum of a world that no longer saw him.
Then, softly, he said, "Have you ever tried talking to her? Really talking to her?"
Lily's gaze didn't waver from the skyline. "Plenty of times."
Peter turned toward her, surprised. "And?"
"She shuts it down." Lily's voice was flat, not bitter, just worn. "Every time I try to bring up anything real, she changes the subject. Acts like I'm just being dramatic, or like I'm still ten and don't understand."
Peter frowned. "She's probably just trying to hold it together."
"I know," Lily said, her tone softening. "She's always been strong. Even when she was just a kid. But strong doesn't mean fine. The only way I've found to bring her joy is by acting the way I do. I mean, and I do like to have fun."
A bit of the mischief from earlier in the day creeping back in.
Peter nodded slowly.
"I've tried pushing her to make friends, to get out more, to do anything other than bury herself in books and memory," Lily continued. "She always has an excuse. 'Too busy.' 'Too tired.' 'Maybe next week.'" Lily let out a small, exasperated breath. "It's like she built her whole world around grief, and now she doesn't know how to live without it."
Peter glanced down at his hands. "I would've liked to know her... when I was alive, I mean." Lily looked at him then, really looked at him. Her expression softened with something close to sympathy, maybe even sadness.
"It's a real shame you're dead," she said quietly. "You would've made a great friend for June."
Peter smiled faintly, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
Lily turned back to the horizon. Her faint glow flickered once more in the darkness. The city spread before them, vast and alive, pulsing with everything they could no longer touch.
And for a long, silent moment, they sat there—two ghosts watching a world that had already moved on.
Peter leaned forward, elbows resting on his ghostly knees—or at least where his knees would've been. "What if..." He paused, watching the dim flicker of a billboard across the rooftops. "What if we stopped worrying about me moving on?"
Lily turned her head, curious.
"I mean," Peter continued, "what if we focused on helping June instead? You've been here all this time trying to keep her from falling apart, right? What if we actually tried to... I don't know—remind her how to live again?"
Lily blinked slowly, her ghostly form dim in the moonlight. "You want to help June move on?"
Peter nodded. "Not from you. Just... from the grief. From whatever's been holding her still."
Lily hesitated. "It's not that simple. She built her whole life around keeping things the same. Around keeping me here."
"Then maybe that's the problem," Peter said gently. "Maybe she needs to see that there's still joy out there. Still things to look forward to. She needs to remember what it's like to want something."
Lily stared at him, brows drawn, the years pressing down on her childlike frame.
"We could make a list," Peter offered, trying to keep his tone light. "Things she used to love. Things that make her smile. Even small stuff—music, books, funnel cakes..."
Lily let out a soft laugh, her voice barely a whisper. "You really think that would work?"
Peter looked out over the glowing city again, then back at her. "I don't know. But it's worth a shot, isn't it?"
Lily was quiet for a long time. Then she gave the faintest nod. "Yeah," she said. "It is."
They sat on that rooftop for hours, the city humming quietly beneath them. Ideas came slowly at first—half-thoughts, memories, moments that might spark joy. They talked, they planned, and when the stars began to fade into the early gray of morning, they were still at it.
It wasn't much—a rooftop, a plan, and a little bit of moonlight. But for two ghosts with nothing better to do, it was a start. And if they had anything to say about it, June's story wasn't going to end in sorrow.