Chapter 1
The first thing Mara learned about the girl next door was the sound of her laugh.
It slipped through the thin walls of the terrace house like a secret; soft, sudden, followed by the clink of a mug against a counter. Mara paused mid-unpacking, box cutter hovering uselessly in her hand. She hadn’t expected noise. The letting agent had promised quiet, had said the place was perfect for someone who liked their own company.
Still, the laugh was warm. Human. It made the empty house feel less like it was holding its breath.
They met three days later in the narrow garden that ran between their back doors. Mara was kneeling in the dirt, attempting to coax life into a patch of soil that had clearly given up years ago, when a shadow fell across her hands.
“Those flowers won’t take,” a voice said gently. “The ground’s too bitter.”
Mara looked up and found herself staring at a woman about her age, dark hair tied loosely at her neck, sleeves rolled to her elbows. There was dirt under her fingernails too. Her smile was crooked, apologetic, like she hadn’t meant to interrupt but couldn’t stop herself.
“Oh,” Mara said stupidly. “Right. That explains a lot.”
The woman laughed - the same laugh from the wall. “I’m Eliza. I’m next door.”
Mara wiped her hands on her jeans and stood. “Mara. I just moved in.”
“I know,” Eliza said, then winced. “I mean, of course I do. New faces are… noticeable.”
They started talking after that. About the garden. About the house. About nothing that mattered and everything that did. Eliza spoke like someone who had nowhere else to be, who lingered in moments as if afraid they might disappear.
Mara liked that about her.
They fell into a quiet rhythm. Tea in the evenings, Eliza appearing at Mara’s back door without ever knocking. Long conversations that stretched into the small hours, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor because neither of them bothered with chairs. Eliza never stayed the night, always leaving just before dawn with a soft, regretful smile.
“Early start,” she’d say.
Mara never questioned it.
It was only small things at first. Eliza never ate, though she always held a mug, steam curling around her fingers. She never brought anything with her; no bag, no phone, no keys. When Mara suggested going out, Eliza hesitated, eyes flicking toward the street like it was something to be feared.
“I don’t really… go far,” she admitted once.
Mara thought it was shyness. Or anxiety. Or a thousand other things she didn’t mind accommodating.
She was already in love by then. Quietly, carefully, like she was afraid the feeling might spook itself into silence.
The night Mara kissed her, it was raining.
They were standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the garden, the air heavy with the smell of wet earth. Eliza was talking about the stars, how she used to map them from memory when she couldn’t sleep, when she suddenly stopped.
“You’re sad,” Eliza said.
Mara blinked. “I’m not-”
“You are,” Eliza insisted, stepping closer. “You hide it well. But it’s there. All the time.”
Mara swallowed. “I didn’t know you could tell.”
Eliza’s expression softened, something unbearably tender in her eyes. “I see you,” she said. “In ways most people don’t.”
The words settled between them, fragile and heavy. Mara reached out before she could think better of it, fingers brushing Eliza’s wrist.
She was cold.
Not unpleasant. Just… wrong.
Eliza froze.
“I’m sorry,” Mara said quickly. “Your hands are freezing—are you okay?”
For a moment, Eliza looked like she might cry. Then she laughed softly, sadly. “Mara,” she said. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
The world seemed to tilt.
“I don’t live next door,” Eliza continued. “Not really.”
Mara’s chest tightened. “What does that mean?”
Eliza stepped back, her form already seeming less solid, the edges of her blurring like breath on glass. “This house used to be mine. I died here. A long time ago.”
The rain fell straight through her.
Mara stared, heart pounding so hard she thought it might break her ribs. “You’re… a ghost.”
“Yes.”
Silence stretched, broken only by the rain.
Mara laughed then, a sharp, breathless sound. “Of course you are,” she said. “Because why wouldn’t the woman I fall in love with be dead?”
Eliza smiled, relief flooding her face. “You’re not angry?”
“I’m terrified,” Mara admitted. “But I’m not angry.”
She stepped forward, lifting her hand again. This time, when her fingers met Eliza’s, there was resistance; faint, like pressing into cold water.
“I still love you,” Mara said.
Eliza’s eyes shone. “That’s why I stayed.”
They didn’t have much time after that. Ghosts, it turned out, weren’t meant to linger once they were seen clearly. Each night Eliza faded a little more, her voice quieter, her smile thinner.
On the last evening, they sat in the garden together as dawn crept in.
“I think I’m ready now,” Eliza said softly.
Mara nodded, tears slipping down her face. “I’ll remember you.”
“I know,” Eliza replied. “You already do.”
When the sun rose, Eliza was gone.
But sometimes, late at night, when the house is quiet and Mara is almost asleep, she hears a familiar laugh through the wall; warm, human, and full of love that refuses to fade.
