Malia Wilson’s first trip to Sky Meadows, Virginia came just after her retirement from the Air Force. She had carried the weight of service for decades, and at that time, standing at the edge of civilian life, she believed the quiet hills and open fields of the park might offer her the spark she needed to complete her portfolio for the New York Academy of Art.

  She was right. The landscapes, the light, the silence all seeped into her brushstrokes. Months later, with her portfolio, transcripts, and letters of recommendation submitted, she received the letter of acceptance: she was officially on her way to earning her Master of Fine Arts.

  She hadn’t returned to Sky Meadows since that first visit. Money had been tight, and life in New York demanded sacrifices. But everything changed when that very first painting from the park—an autumn scene of a man and woman reclining on a blanket beneath the copper leaves of Sky Meadows—was featured in a Brooklyn artists’ journal. That single publication opened doors. Commissions followed. She began tutoring private students, selling her work at open houses, and for the first time, she felt the dream she had chased since childhood was becoming real.

  Malia loved both sides of her family deeply, but it was her African American heritage that seemed to ignite her artistic fire. She was drawn to painting young Black women in natural settings: picnics beneath trees, figures framed by murals of stone and moss, silhouettes beside springs and lakes. Sky Meadows, with its rolling pastures and wildflower trails, was the perfect canvas for her vision.

  On this particular day, she returned with her camera, searching for a scene she could later transform with one of her favorite models. She photographed a weathered wood fence where someone had cleverly built the word Love into its beams, an old tractor tire completing the “O” in the design. She captured the sun pouring through a tree, each leaf catching the light like shards of stained glass.

  Wildlife crossed her path including rabbits darting into the underbrush, deer pausing to watch her with cautious eyes. She snapped a few photos for her personal collection, though she knew animals weren’t her subject. They were charming, yes, but her art lived in human presence, in the stories told by posture and gaze, and the shadows that graced a gorgeous face.

  Hours passed as she hiked and searched, until finally the trail opened into a field. On her left, purple thistle—though she thought it should be called blue thistle—rose in clusters. On her right, white starry campion wildflowers swayed in the breeze. The scene was perfect, balanced, alive. She already knew what she would paint. Inspiration surged through her like a tide, unstoppable and electric. She took several photographs, her heart racing with the certainty that this was the moment she had been waiting for.

  Satisfied, she turned to head back before the dusk settled over the meadow.

  That’s when it happened.

  The wind shifted abruptly, veering from the west to a biting surge out of the north. Overhead, the clear blue sky darkened as cumulus clouds rolled into existence, swelling and colliding with unnatural speed. A tree cracked and toppled less than fifty feet away, the crash reverberating through the ground and jolting Malia’s nerves.

  Then the gust hit. A wall of air slammed into her with hurricane force, driving her backward, her boots skidding across the path as she fought to anchor herself. She leaned into it, muscles straining, but the gale tore her balance away. Her legs buckled, swept out from under her, and she pitched forward. Instinctively, she threw out a hand to break her fall. Pain exploded as her ulna snapped against the earth.

  Her cry tore through the wind, half curse, half scream.

  And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the storm stilled. Silence pressed down, broken only by her ragged breathing.

  Malia cradled her wrist, knowing she needed medical help, fast. She forced herself upright, teeth clenched against the pain. But before she could take a step, the wind returned. More violent, merciless. It struck with such abruptness that she was lifted off her feet and hurled backward. She hit the ground hard, the back of her skull slamming into the path. Stars burst across her vision, then darkness swallowed her whole.

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  “Verdammt noch mal, Malia,” her grandmother scoffed in harsh German. She only cursed in her native tongue. “How many times must I tell you…crying is for ze weak. You are so much stronger zan you belief. Now. Get yourself up. Dust yourself off. Vee’ll clean zat knee up in ze bassroom.”

  Malia opened her eyes for the first time since hitting her head, the childhood memory dissolving as quickly as it had surfaced. She didn’t know why that particular moment replayed in her mind. Perhaps because she wanted to cry, though years of being taught not to had left her unable.

  With a jolt, she realized she was floating. Disoriented, she flailed her arms bracing for a fall that never came. She hovered thirty feet above the ground, unsupported. The wind blew ever so slightly, brushed casually against her body, shifting the ground beneath her as if someone was dragging the map on Google Earth.

  Okay then. How do I get down? she thought.

  As if the wind heard her and could respond to her mental command, she began a slow descent. She had been gliding parallel to the ground, and as she landed, she caught sight of her new legs for the first time. They looked spectral, like an apparition conjured from a fog machine at a rock concert. Her body was opaque yet cloudlike, reminiscent of Casper in the live-action film from the ’90s. The breeze shifted her form, making parts of her vanish and reappear as if sculpted from mist.

  Can I walk through walls now? Flying was now a thing; I am mostly transparent…and my pain…The pain from my injuries is gone.

  Remembering the fall, she examined her wrist. Healed. No trace of a fracture. She touched the back of her head, expecting her hand to pass through, but it met solid resistance, and no pain.

  Her head was fine, yet the thought of intangibility begged to be tested.

  Why am I not more freaked out? she wondered, but she really was fine. She felt insanely comfortable, almost exhilarated, being ghostlike.

  She gasped sharply, Am I a ghost?!

  She hadn’t believed in ghosts before then, but she’d never dismissed the possibility. Life after death was always a mystery.

  Was it possible I died from that fall, and I’m now a spirit?

  She approached a nearby tree and pressed her hand against the bark. At first, it felt normal. Then, with focus, her fingers slipped through, first the tip of one, then several, until her entire hand sank in up to the wrist.

  I’m incorporeal?

  But that didn’t make sense either. It couldn’t be that simple. She could feel the wood’s texture inside. She could feel the slow-moving sap reacting to the intrusion, inspecting the foreign object now inside its form.

  She quickly removed her hand, then softly caressed the bark. “I’m so sorry. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

  Until that moment, she’d never worried about the welfare of plant-life. Yet the tree seemed to possess a kind of consciousness. Maybe not intelligence, or awareness exactly, but undeniably life.

  Mental note: No cutting down trees for a while. She chuckled at her little inside joke; she’d never cut down a tree in her life anyway.

  “Okay, Malia. Now what? I guess you died and you’re a ghost. Do you just wait around until someone finds your body, or…Wait a minute. Where’s my body?”

  She lifted back into the air and flew around looking for the field where she’d fallen. Within a few minutes, she’d found the field, but her body was gone. Scanning the area, she found her camera lying in the grass unattended, but there was no sign of her body.

  Had someone already found my body and taken me somewhere?

  No ambulance, no hearse, no emergency vehicles, or police. In fact, there was no one in the park at all.

  Faster than she thought was possible, she streaked around the entire 1,900-acre park in under half an hour. Not one person in the park. Not one animal. It was like everyone and everything had just vanished.

  Maybe everyone’s like me, now? Maybe they’re cloud-matter now, too? Maybe we can’t see each other?

  She darted to the parking lot, spotting only two cars besides her own. She wasn’t sure if she could drive in her new form, and then she remembered she would need her keys, which should be on her actual body. She patted herself, but not only was there no keys, but she suddenly realized she was naked.

  Well, I guess ghosts don’t need clothes, but still…Hmmm…I wonder if I can change the way I look a little.

  She manipulated her appearance with a thought putting on jeans and a cute top and a sweater. She couldn’t feel the night’s chill, but a sweater felt like the thing to wear, plus she liked sweaters and loved sweater weather. She loved just saying sweater weather.

  Now, how am I going to get home? Could I fly all the way back to New York?

  She looked up to find a young man gaping at her, eyes wide, mouth wide open.

  “Hi there!” she said brightly, thrilled to finally see another person.

  The man screamed and bolted back inside the small gift shop. It was like a scene right out of Scooby doo.

  She giggled softly to herself. “Oops. Guess you’ve never seen a ghost before.” Soaring several hundred feet into the evening air, the twilight sky seemed to open up to greet her. The sun was barely visible on the western horizon, and from her altitude she could already see the stars glittering in the east.

  She had no idea how high she was, but she didn’t care. It was time to see how fast she could go.

  As she flew away, several sprites, wisps, and misty creatures watched. They had only been born a few hours ago, but they knew their place was with the elemental who just took off. So, they followed her.