Bidding goodbye to my friend, I pedaled my bicycle toward home. Normally it takes me ten minutes, but today I took the long way—the road where only three kinds of people ever appear.

One: visitors, who come to leave flowers for their relatives.
Two: junkies, slouching in shadows.
And three... well, you'll see.

I set my bike on its stand, pulled out the flowers I'd bought, and walked toward the graveyard. Yes—this road is where the cemetery and morgue are nestled side by side.

As a kid, one question haunted me: why didn't they build a church next to the graves? Was God afraid of the dead too? I never found an answer.

Every Saturday, I placed flowers on every grave—even the ones without names—hoping that some nameless soul, forgotten by everyone else, might still whisper a prayer for my parents. I didn't know where my parents were buried. I didn't even know if they were buried. All I could wish was that they had found a place to rest in peace.

By the time I got home, a delicious aroma wrapped itself around me, hitting my nose before I'd even opened the door. That meant only one thing—Gran was home.

My grandfather, Bronwen Winston—"Wen" to his close friends—ran a modest ironworks factory, but his true art was food.

"Nivi, my dear!" he boomed as I stepped in. "Perfect timing! Look what I made today."

"Burritos!" I shouted, inhaling greedily. "Yes!"

"Where's Grammy?" I asked, already reaching for a plate.

"In the attic since morning," he said.

"What? Why?"

"Probably making juice to curse her rival in the kitty party."

We both burst out laughing.

Yeah—that was Grammy. My grandmother, Debolina, was the jealous type. Lately, she'd been at war with her lifelong rival, Pauley. Over what? Who knew. Rivals don't need a reason. To her, rivalry was practically witchcraft.

And I mean that literally.

She wasn't just like a witch. She was one.

I remembered the time I got into a fight with a bully—he said something cruel, I returned the favor with my fists. Grammy brewed "apology coffee" for his parents laced with a little herb that tweaked their memories. Worked like a charm.

Gran was a warlock too, though retired. He called it his "voluntary resignation" from witchcraft. Shrug.

A little later, Grammy came down, dusting off her hands, and joined us at the table.

"How was your day?" she asked.

"Same old, same old. Yours?" I asked through a mouthful of burrito.

"Legal paperwork. Boring as hell."

She wasn't exaggerating. Grammy was a phenomenal forensic expert. She'd once been listed among Canada's top ten, even offered a position in Washington. She turned it down. Said she didn't want fame—just enough money to live a quiet life.

As we ate, I noticed Gran and Grammy sneaking glances at each other. It was obvious—they were speaking in silence.

"Okay, spill," I said, setting my burrito down.

"What?" Gran asked innocently.

"The thing you're both dying to say."

"Oh. Um—" He sighed and looked at her. "Go on. Tell her."

Grammy cleared her throat. "Sweetie, you'll be finishing high school soon, right? And then comes university. Remember the school we told you about—"

"Yes, the alma mater of my parents," I interrupted. "The school where only a handful are chosen. The one with all the answers I've been waiting for."

"Exactly." Her smile wavered. "We... received your acceptance letter. Two days ago."

I froze. Not shocked. Not overjoyed. Just blank.

Gran got up, fetched the envelope, and placed it in my hands.

I tore it open, pulled out several brown sheets, and began to read:

Dear Nieve Winston,
We at the School of Sylvian are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for admission. Please find enclosed a list of required books and supplies. The term begins on July 1. We eagerly await your arrival.
Sincerely,
Sybbyl Emberly, Headmistress.

I set the letter down. Two pairs of eyes drilled into me.

"What?" I asked, startled.

"What do you think? Will you go?" Grammy asked softly.

I smirked. "That's not even a question, is it?"

They cheered, leapt from their seats, and wrapped me in a crushing hug.

"I'm happy for you," Gran murmured into my hair.

"Only ten days left before term begins," I said. "Don't we need to buy supplies?"

Gran winked. "Already done. Your gran handled it."

"Then I'll go finish the rest of my work," I said begrudgingly, darting to my room.

"But what work?" Gran called after me.

"Shh," Grammy hushed him. "Her two great works—her friends, and her other friends."

Saturday again. Flowers in hand, I moved through the cemetery rows, laying them one by one. Each prayer whispered was as much for my parents as for the strangers beneath my feet.

That was when she appeared—a woman, faint but there, walking toward me. A soul.

I didn't speak first. I never did.

"I heard you're leavin'," she said, her voice echoing faintly, like from the bottom of a well.

"Uh-huh."

"I always wanted to see my grandson go to school. Pack his lunch, walk him to the gates." She sighed. "Guess I wasn't so lucky."

"Is that why you're still wandering?" I asked.

"Nah. He's got good parents."

"Then why linger? Shouldn't you be... on the other side?"

She lowered her head. "I'm waiting for my husband. To apologize."

My brows furrowed.

"I hurt him. Cheated on him. He worked so hard to build us a life—gave me everything, never said no. And I... took it as license. Clubbing. Gambling. Lies. He stood by me until I finally broke him." Her voice cracked.

"He must've been in pain," I said flatly.

"I made his life hell," she whispered. "And when I couldn't undo it, I thought maybe... if I left, it'd be easier for him."

"By suicide?" I asked, giving her a hard look. "That wasn't his choice, and it wasn't your right. No matter how bad it got, he stayed. All you had to do was ask for forgiveness. Maybe—just maybe—he would've given it."

"Maybe," she murmured, eyes distant.

After a pause, she studied me. "Why are you like this?"

"Like what?" I asked, voice flat.

"Always so... kind. I've seen you talk to other souls. No matter their sins, you never judge them. Never curse them."

I set the last flower down and dusted my hands. "Doesn't matter. They're dead. Nothing I say can change that."

I turned toward the gate, pausing once. "As for judging—there's someone up there." I pointed at the sky. "That's his job, not mine."

And there you have it. The third kind of people on that road? Souls. Not people, exactly. But not gone, either.