“You know I could walk up by my damn self,” Moira snapped, ripping her wrist from Ben’s sweaty grip.
Ben hadn’t even realized he’d been dragging her—from the gym, to the street, up the stairs, breathless and frantic.
“Huh—oh, sorry, Moira, I’m just—when you see it, her, you’ll—”
They stopped short at his door.
Moira planted her palm flat against his chest, holding him there.
“Her?” she demanded. “Wait. I’m meeting someone? You’ve been a wreck for months, Benjamin, and now there’s a her? What the fuck?”
Tears pooled in her eyes, sharp and sudden.
“I don’t need to meet whoever she is,” Moira continued, her voice breaking, “at least not yet. In case you’ve forgotten, she was practically my sister. My family. When I lost everyone, she was there. And—”
“Hey,” a voice said gently from inside the apartment. “What’s going on? I heard voices.”
Angie stood there.
Just as Moira remembered her.
Living. Breathing.
A sound tore its way out of Moira’s chest as her eyes widened and her hand tightened in the fabric of Ben’s jacket. Ben covered Moira’s hand with his own, felt the violent tremor in her fingers, hoped—stupidly—that touch could anchor this moment.
“Moi—”
“Shut up,” Moira whispered. “Shut. Up.”
Tears slid down her face as she slowly let go of Ben. She tilted her head, wonder and disbelief softening her features, her shoulders sagging as if her body wanted to collapse—but didn’t. Bearing witness mattered more than fainting.
“How are…” she tried. Swallowed. “How are you here?”
Angie’s eyes filled as she shrugged helplessly, a small, broken smile tugging at her mouth.
“Honestly? I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe the wedding was a promise. Or a wish. I—I don’t know.”
Moira laughed through her tears and wiped her face.
“A wish,” she echoed. “It was a wish.”
She hugged Angie.
Then Ben did.
For a moment, it was the happiest thing any of them had ever known—the relief of Angie being back, alive, here.
Until Ben’s arms closed around Moira.
“What—no,” Moira gasped, shoving him away. “No. No no no no no.”
Ben’s heart slammed into his throat.
Angie was gone.
Ben stood there, everything still. Even the dust in the air seemed to hold her outline — a shape where she had been.
He looked at Moira.
Her arms were tight at her sides, fingers twitching outward — the same nervous reach she used to make when she’d grab for Angie’s hand in crowded rooms.
Ben kept staring, like his body hadn’t received the message yet.
Then he moved.
“Angie?”
He checked the hallway first, then the bathroom, then the bedroom — opening doors as if she might be standing politely behind one, waiting for the right cue to return.
“Angie, stop. This isn’t—”
“Ben.”
Moira’s shoulders dropped. She stepped into the middle of the living room.
The apartment did not feel empty.
It felt… plucked. Rearranged. Nothing missing. Just shifted.
“She just disappeared,” Ben said, breathing uneven. “We have to find her.”
Moira lifted her hand.
“Hold on.”
“For what?”
“Shhh.”
“You saw her. She was here.”
“I know.”
“And she’s gone.”
“No.”
“What do you mean no?!”
Moira’s jaw tightened.
“Because it can’t be that you saw her all night and I only got her for a few minutes in the morning. Because Benjamin — you may have been her husband — but I am her sister.”
Her voice didn’t rise. It steadied.
“I felt it when she left the first time. I felt it in my ribs. And I’m telling you right now — she is not gone like that.”
Ben swallowed.
Moira took one step closer.
“You think because you two were special bone buddies that makes you more important than me?” she said, deadpan. “Moira equals Bestie for Life. Always.”
Ben blinked.
Then laughed — sharp and startled.
She hit his arm.
He pulled her into a hug. They laughed harder than the moment deserved. Then quieter. Then still. Moira’s head rested on his shoulder. “Where are you here, Ange?” she whispered to the room. “Why leave here like that? You wouldn’t just go—right? Not with me. Not just like that.”Ben pressed his cheek into her hair. “Like you said,” he murmured. “You feel her. You’ll tell me the day she’s gone again.” Moira nodded once. “A promise.”
That night, Ben woke into paralysis.
He couldn’t move.
The air felt thick, pressing down on his chest.
There was weight at the edge of the mattress.
Tall.
Still.
Watching him.
His throat worked uselessly.
The figure leaned forward.
Hair falling over its face.
And then—
“Oh my god, you should see your face!”
Angie burst into laughter.
The pressure vanished.
Ben jerked upright.
“What the hell, Ange?”
“I have always wanted to scare you like that,” she said, wiping imaginary tears from her eyes. “And I thought this was the best opportunity.”
“You’re dead.”
“And you still scare easy!”
“No, I meant — you’re dead!”
She laughed again, and he lunged for her. She darted away, the room bending strangely around them as if the walls were slightly tilted.
He caught her by the waist and pulled her in.
He buried his face in her hair.. It still smelled like her raspberry cowash.
“Tell me this is real,” he whispered. “Tell me I’m not just dreaming.”
She leaned back slightly and looked at him.
“What I’ve learned so far,” she said gently, “is that two things can be true.”
She placed her hands on his face.
“This is real.”
The clock behind her began to soften at the edges.
“And you are dreaming.”
Ben looked around.
The walls breathed.
The bed stretched slightly too long.
The digital clock melted — numbers fixed at 9:08.
“Why did you leave?”
A small pause.
“I think we misjudged it,” she said. “We don’t always get the whole morning.”
“What happens now?”
She wrapped her arms around him, resting her chin against his chest.
“For now,” she whispered, “we have this.”
“And after?”
“There are ways,” she said softly. “Not all of them look like this.”
“How will I know—”
She stopped him with a kiss.
“Ask Moira.”
She leaned close to his ear.
“And you forgot to turn on your alar—”
Ben woke with a choking gasp.
The room was still.
The microwave clock glowed through the doorway.
9:09 a.m.
He grabbed his phone.
9:09.
His mind snagged on the dream.
9:08.
The number would not let go.
His phone rang.
Moira.
He answered.
There was a long breath on the other end.
“Ben,” she said quietly. “What time was she buried?”
His stomach dropped.
“Nine-oh-eight.”
Silence.
On both ends.
“That’s the hour,” Moira said.
Neither of them said what it meant.
