My name was Rick Evets—or at least, it was before I died. I spent most of my life studying the human soul. Not as a scientist, though; I was a philosophy and theory major. After six long years in college, I had a degree in a subject no one could fully prove. Back then, many people saw it as a waste, something you studied only if you wanted to teach, or perhaps write a book no one would read.

  But times were changing.

  When advancements in science confirmed the existence of ghosts, everything shifted. The abstract and the unprovable suddenly had weight, and the world of the metaphysical merged with reality. My career blossomed—not as a scientist or skeptic, but as an advisor for paranormal investigators. And by "investigators," I mean those attention-seeking buffoons on TV who thought goading restless spirits made for great entertainment.

  I remember one broadcast vividly, though I wish I could forget it. The hosts, laughing among themselves, decided to torment a ghost by mentioning the name of her long-lost lover. She was clearly suffering from a kind of dementia—one moment recognizing the name, the next utterly confused. They laughed at her pain, mocking her as she spiraled between clarity and sorrow.

  It disgusted me.

  These were murder victims, betrayed lovers, and souls caught in their deepest pain. They’d already suffered enough in life. Why should they endure even more in death?

  Even within my community, I was an outsider. Perhaps because I was too outspoken—or because I was right. Many colleagues dismissed my theories, clinging to their own beliefs regardless of evidence. Atheists often argued that ghosts were nothing more than fragments of consciousness, echoes of lives once lived. Others held that the broken, repetitive spirits—the ones endlessly reliving their final moments—were suffering the consequences of their evil deeds in life.

  It was a neat idea, but it didn’t hold up.

  I had seen too many spirits, both good and evil, left incomplete—shattered, as if vital pieces of their being had been chipped away.

  I developed a theory, one that would reshape everything I understood about the soul. And, as I would later learn, I was right.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Among the sentient ghosts I had worked with, a few stood out. Nameless monks who had died in meditation, their forms calm but their spirits trapped in silent reflection. And Lucille, a girl from the plague era—a lesser noble who had devoted herself to helping others. Her compassion was boundless; she died nursing the sick, unable to save herself because she couldn’t bear to abandon the suffering.

  Lucille remained as a ghost, not because she was tormented, but because she wasn’t done. She believed there would always be someone else to help. And despite her unfinished business, she found joy in recounting the lives she had touched.

  She told me once, “Their stories make me whole.”

  And that was it.

  I realized then that her stories—her memories—were what preserved her. She retold them, again and again, not out of vanity, but because they gave her soul shape and structure. Memories weren’t just recollections; they were fragments of identity, woven into the fabric of the soul.

  The monks made sense, too. Even in death, they meditated, reflecting inward. Some failed to achieve enlightenment, endlessly revisiting their pasts. Yet in doing so, they preserved themselves, recording their essence within their souls.

  Perhaps enlightenment—what they called Nirvana—was the act of transcending the soul’s boundaries altogether.

  I didn’t know. I didn’t plan to achieve Nirvana.

  Instead, I began experimenting. What if memories could shape the soul consciously? What if reflecting on life could preserve who we are? I developed a method of meditating on the past, creating mental loops of my most precious memories, writing them onto my soul.

  At first, there was no way to test the theory. It was intangible, unprovable—a target for ridicule. When I published my thesis, it was met with mockery. The skeptics, the "snake oil salesmen" pushing sensational lies for profit, laughed me out of the room.

  But I didn’t stop.

  I meditated daily, replaying my memories like scenes in a film, carving them into my soul. The effects were remarkable. My memory sharpened to a razor’s edge—better than photographic recall. I could focus on multiple topics at once, my mind splitting into parallel threads of thought.

  I was on the verge of proving my abilities, preparing to add them as evidence to my thesis.

  And then I died.

  It was an ordinary afternoon. I was sitting in my favorite coffee shop, sipping my usual blend, the aroma warm and comforting. The barista was busy wiping down the counters, the faint hum of the espresso machine filling the room.

  Outside, the sky was heavy with clouds, and I wondered if it would rain.

  The sound came from above—a deafening screech of tearing metal, followed by a crash that shattered the air.

  The last thing I saw was my own decapitated body slumped in the chair.

  A plane’s wing had torn through the building.

  I’d always imagined I would remain as a ghost, but my unfinished business must not have been as important as I thought.

  Moments after my death, I was whisked away.