Chapter 1

Three years after my death, my grandma, with her failing eyesight and hearing, accidentally dialed Dylan's number.

He shouted, "Stella? How dare you use this number again? Where have you been hiding all these years, living it up?

"Was it you who leaked the operation details back then? Did Maverick and the others die because of you?"

His fury startled my grandma. The phone nearly slipped from her grasp.

She struggled to press the receiver closer, her words thick with tears and confusion.

"Hello? Is that you, Dylan?

"Stella is dead... she's never coming back. She was a good girl. Why are you still blaming her?"

*****

The call was abruptly disconnected at that moment.

The dial tone felt like a blunt knife sawing back and forth in my chest.

Grandma held that old phone, her age-spotted hand trembling slightly, her cloudy eyes filled with confusion and helplessness.

Hunched over, she spoke into the silent receiver once more, mumbling as if to herself,

"Dylan... Stella is dead. She really is... She was a good girl. Please don't blame her..."

But on the other end, only the cold dial tone answered her.

Dylan couldn't hear her.

Or perhaps, he simply couldn't be bothered to listen.

My name, the one that still occupied his heart with hate and suspicion three years after my death, along with his accusations of me "enjoying myself" and "leaking the mission route" that supposedly got Maverick and the others killed... they were like red-hot nails, piercing my long-still heart until it was riddled with holes.

I was dead.

Dylan, I'd been dead for three years.

But you didn't know.

You actually thought I was alive, and that I had betrayed you, betrayed the faith and friends we once shared.

A crushing sense of absurdity and sharp pain twisted together, making what was left of my spirit tremble violently.

I wanted to explain, to rush in front of him and show him what I was now.

But I couldn't.

I could only hover helplessly beside Grandma, watching her panic from that sudden, angry call, watching her try to defend me, only to be met with deeper misunderstanding.

"Grandma..."

I screamed soundlessly, reaching out to hug her, but my fingers passed straight through her thin, frail shoulders.

I couldn't touch her. I couldn't hold her.

I couldn't even feel her warmth.

Perhaps this was my greatest punishment: to remain in this world, forced to watch the only loved one I had left suffering because of me, yet utterly powerless to even wipe her tears.

When I regained consciousness three years ago, I found myself back by Grandma's side.

Without a body, without a voice, just a wisp of a spirit clinging to this old house and to her.

I didn't know why I didn't vanish completely. Maybe it was because I couldn't let go of her.

We only had each other since I was little. She was the only one in this world who loved me unconditionally.

With me gone, nearly deaf, blind, and unsteady on her feet... how could she manage alone?

For these three years, I'd watched her sit day after day on that old wicker chair by the door, gazing down the path I took when I left, from dawn till dusk.

I'd watched her grow frustrated trying to understand others, gesturing anxiously. I'd seen her bump into furniture, her eyesight failing, yet still murmuring, "Be careful, Stella, don't hurt yourself..."

She was always calling for me.

But I could never answer.

I thought time would slowly heal things, that it would at least make Dylan believe I hadn't just disappeared on him.

I was wrong.

For three whole years, in his mind, I had been a disgraceful traitor, a coward who abandoned my friends to die.

Who?

Who made him believe that?

What really happened with that "leaked mission route"?

Did Maverick and the others really all die?

A chill seeped from the very core of my being.

My death was unclear. All I remembered was the final agony and darkness before I lost consciousness. I had no idea what happened afterward.

Could my death be connected to that mission?

Grandma fumbled the phone back onto the nightstand and let out a soft sigh.

Leaning on her knees, she slowly stood up and shuffled toward the kitchen, muttering to herself, "Stella must be hungry. Time to cook..."

She was going to make enough food for two again.

She'd done this every day for the past three years.

I drifted after her into the kitchen, watching her shaky hands wash the vegetables, her movements slow and clumsy.

The fading daylight filtered through the dusty window, outlining her solitary shadow. It was so small, so terribly alone.

"Grandma, I'm not hungry. I could't eat anything..."

I circled her uselessly, knowing she couldn't hear, but unable to stop myself from saying it over and over.