_Psst, I see dead people…_

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I pause in my tracks. Most people would turn around to see what thing, what person uttered such an eerie verse. I thought I’d ridden myself of whatever had been haunting me. Evidently not.

Lately I’ve felt so cold. My bones ache everywhere and I feel so alone. Whatever’s doing this to me has no mercy.

_I see dead people…_

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“Shut up!” I yell into the air, not caring who hears. But it seems everyone around me, save for a few who appear to be absolutely bewildered, don’t notice, or if they do, they just dont care. “Won’t you leave me be?”

No reply, whatsoever. The moment I speak up, is a moment of peace I am provided with. Imagine that—running from the very thing that causes you such misery, it never leaving you, but then you stand up to it, and it quiets. For once, it is silent.

In this world—Darkharmony—every song has meaning. Every note is sung with intention, and it is your job to figure out why and how it is being used. I have never believed in this superstition. It’s foolish to take heed in such unrealistic ideas. But I do believe in the gods of Harmony, and I can only think I have done something worthy enough of their judgement.

The question I’ve been asking myself for weeks now, is exactly what that is. If I _have _done anything, there is no recollection of it. Forget seeing _dead people; _when I search into the depths of my brain, _I see nothing. _Nothing exists but the hollowness I feel, and it’s not only in my head—it’s everywhere. Every step I take feels like I’m walking bearfoot on the coldest ice known to man. Every breath of air is like breathing in the deathly winters, itself.

_Psssst, I see—_

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“I KNOW WHAT YOU SEE!” I keep my pace up the small sidewalk to Miss Andrew’s old crafts shop. She is the oldest and wisest out of evryone. If anyone possesses any information to why this is happening, it’s her.

The door opens with a little welcome jingle. None else are inside, except for Miss Andrew’s. I can speak to her in private. She looks past me to the door and narrows her aged eyes suspiciously.

“Evening, Miss Andrew’s!” I greet her. But when she meets my gaze, not a single ounce of happiness crosss her face. She defogs her spectacles, and stares at me in pure shock. But this is not the surprise of someone delightful to see you.

“Mia?” She gasps. “What in C Minor’s name are you doing here?”

“I—I don’t get your meaning, Miss Andrew’s,” I stammer in confusion. “I see you every morning, but I have something of the utmost importance to speak to you about.”

“No.” She paces behind her counter, uttering the word over and again.

“Miss Andrew’s—?”

“You are not supposed to be here,” she howls. “It wasn’t your time!”

Panic strikes every vein in my body. The blood that has seemingly run cold this whole time, has now stopped altogether. It’s horrific—feeling faint, but not being able to. “I don’t under—”

I gasp, the air so cold I nearly choke. I back away from the counter, because I remember. The memories are spilling back in a never ending blizzard. Old Miss Bitty Andrew’s died weeks ago. I went to her funeral. I remember the song they played. Afterwards, everyone was talking about how the song that played was so lovely. But it wasn’t. It was completely inappropriate. It didn’t fit the setting at all. I nearly fall backwards thinking of it.

We heard two completely different songs. What I heard, was the song GONE by NF and Julia Micheals. Not the whole song, but specifically the chorus—

_Don’t wait, it’s too late to keep holding on_

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_Yeah I’m already gone_

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“Mia wait, dear—!”

I run out of the shop, tripping over my skirts. I don’t know where I’m going, I’m not thinking of that. Now people pause on the streets. They pick their hands up to their mouths, aghast—or at least the people that know me—_knew me._

There really _are _two worlds. One for the living and one for the dead. Except it’s the same world, too. There are people I know knew me, and they keep walking along with their children, their little dogs, humming notes of joy.

_They are still living, _I realize.__

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But those who can see me…

Sarah Gull, who died ten years ago.

Ruth Bayleaf, two months ago of Scarlet fever.

Little Louis Grayson, last winter by a hunter with poor eyes, who mistook him for a dear.

Damian Short and his tragic accident with skating over a rather unsteady, frozen lake.

And me…

I was walking home after finally kissing the boy I’d loved for _years. _

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The front of my boot gets stuck in a crevice in the sidewalk, and I fall, my chin smacking the cement. But when I pick my head up, there is no blood. No wound. But it still hurts.

That’s when I fully recall the events of that night. I was mugged. They ordered me not to scream, but I did. I fought back. But they were too strong. One bashed me over the head, and I was out.

My temple both burns and stings just thinking about it.

They didn’t want any evidence I’d been murdered, so they picked me up and threw me into an icy lake. I imagine myself hitting the frozen-over surface, sinking, the waterrs pulling me down and down until the moon was just a glowing dot in the night that mocked me. I drowned. Even if I had come to consciousness, I couldn’t have done anything, either. I hadn’t known how to swim.

I suck in a breath. Suddenly my beautiful blue dress is sopping wet, and I’m shivering. Deep, chocolate locks stick to my forehead, and a puddle swiftly forms around my crumbled figure, as I hold myself up with two, gloved hands. I turn my gaze upward, and peer at the night sky in disbelief. A new star suddenly appears once I come to the conclusion.

_Psst, I see dead people._

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That’s what the song has been trying to tell me. I’ve been mindlessly passing by deceased individuals for weeks now because—

“I’m dead.”