“Simply,” she said smoothly, “I’m not your date. Well, not this time.”

“You’re not—you’re not what?”

My leg jittered under the table, my foot tapping quietly on the stone floor. Silence clogged the empty pub like smoke. It stifled the room, made it stuffy, hard to breathe, to think.

Usually, I’d revel in the quiet, welcome it, but this was maddening.

It was dead silent.

Even the beat of my heart eluded me, the steady thump nonexistent like it never existed at all. What I would have done to hold a shell to my ear, just to hear the rush of the blood in my veins, gushing like the sea against the shore.

Opposite, the corners of my date's—or not my date—eyes crinkled, and she leaned forward, steepling her fingers beneath her chin.

“I’m not your date,” she repeated.

Air wheezed from my chest, my lungs—an over-boiled kettle—whistling. “No, no! I met you just yesterday, and you said to meet today. Here. I—I,” I remembered the slip of paper and yanked it from the pouch at my belt, slamming it in front of her elbows. “I have written confirmation. See, this confirms it. The date, time—everything. I’m not a liar!”

My not-date date glanced over the note, then steadied her mischievous blue eyes back on mine. A gentle smile touched her lips—a warm gesture that never left as she settled back into the chair.

Her movements were soft, thoughtful, like the smooth ebb of a river—as though everything she did exuded a purpose. And despite my irritation—my shame—I couldn't help but watch, oddly mesmerised, and I found myself caught in her net of awe.

“You don't recognise me,” she stated. “Do you. I guess I’ve changed a little.”

I jumped as the candle on the table beside us popped.

“Of course I do!” I was certain I did—positive. “It's you who clearly doesn't recognise me. You said—”

“I didn't. We didn't meet yesterday.”

“But the note! It confirms—”

“Nothing.” The sombre timbre of her voice sent a wave of goosebumps down my arms, and I shivered.

Somewhere, a light wind blew through a crack in the pub walls. Candles on the other tables flickered, and the note shuddered, fluttering back towards me.

“The paper is blank,” she added sincerely, the sobering fade of her smile telling me I didn't even need to look at it to know it was true.

“We were supposed to meet,” she said. “Twelve years ago, by the caves. I got there early. But had I stayed at home, well,”—she shrugged—“perhaps I wouldn't have missed your note.” She touched her pale finger to the corner of the paper, and a bead of water swelled at the tip of her nail. It dangled for a moment, then dropped, splashing in droplets across the page.

The water spread, and the paper thinned. The white faded, becoming transparent until all that remained was the brown of the wooden table.

“You couldn't make it,” she went on, and I dragged my eyes away from the now vacant table. “The reason why doesn't matter now, but of course, I didn't know, so I waited. And waited, and waited, then the tide came in, and I had waited too long.” She shrugged again. “So the sea took me.”

Thoughts darted through my mind like a disturbed beehive. Each one moved too fast for me to grab hold, to make sense of what she was saying.

But she did look familiar. That much I knew—understood. She had to mean something. She had to be someone... To me.

Dry cotton clogged at the base of my throat, and the painful silence pounded more feverously against my skull. Maybe this was all a dream.

Maybe I’d drunk too much.

Maybe this was all a nightmare.

Maybe she was telling the truth.

Maybe...

May...

May.

A young girl sat in the chair, her dark curls gathered in a wild bunch on her head. Pink tinted the brown of her plump, grinning cheeks and her eyes sparkled like two mischievous jewels.

I remembered.

We’d first met when we were eight, in the woods behind the village. She had been kind to me—she would always be kind to me, and I killed her.

Numbness prickled my skin. I thought I'd never see her again.

I blinked the wetness from my eyes, and older May returned.

She’d died—drowned. I thought I'd never see her again.

“How...” My voice gave out, and I cleared my throat. “How are you here? Why... Why are you—we—here now?”

“Perhaps I am your unfinished business,” May mused. “So if that's true, I don't blame you for my death. If I'm honest, I’ve had more fun these last years dead than I ever did alive. But that doesn't mean I don't miss ‘being’ alive—I miss my family, most of all—but that still means I don't blame you.” Her hand came to rest on mine. “Remember that.”

I expected her skin to be cold as death should be, but all I felt was warmth, and her fingers curled over mine like a comforting hug. My chest heaved, cool air filling my lungs as though I was finally allowed to breathe—she truly held no hatred toward what I had done.

“You...” My voice cracked. I couldn't look at her face. “You said you weren't my date.”

“No, I’m not. I feel as though I’m simply a stop along the way. An appetiser, if you will.”

“Then who's my date?”

May’s gaze wandered over my shoulder.

Her breath warm—said a word so cold:

“Death.”

An air of unease thrummed through the small pub, and the quiet, the peace I had scorned, broke. Static crackled, and my chest hitched, yet I still couldn't feel my heart—it should have been pounding.

In the corner, a figure stood, their body draped in silk black as tar, as endless as the night sky. Sleeves pleated together at their front; their face—that is, if they had one—was covered, hidden beneath the fold of their hood. They slowly came forward, seeming to float, drifting like a paper boat on the surface of a lake.

“What—what do you mean?” I stuttered. “I—I’m not dead.”

Two of May’s fingers pressed against the soft skin beneath the heel of my hand, and I momentarily forgot the approaching figure. May’s eyebrow raised—a challenge—but I caught something in her eyes.

She was sad.

For me? For herself? For us? I didn't know.

A gentle pressure squeezed, and a skeletal hand curled over my shoulder.

“Aren’t you?” She asked.