Chapter 1: Ghosts Don’t Quit—Neither Does Grant

The night after I died, I slipped into Grant Miller’s dreams like static after a bad touchdown call—uninvited, relentless, and impossible to ignore. Every night, I’d crash through his subconscious—sometimes bursting in like a commercial break during the Super Bowl, other times just lurking in the corner, arms crossed, rolling my eyes. My ghostly form made regular cameos in Grant Miller’s sleep, tossing off snarky one-liners and cursing him to just hurry up and kick the bucket already. You’d think after a couple years of this, he’d look at least a little shaken. But nope—he just kept chugging along, totally unfazed by my afterlife shenanigans.

He just kept living, full throttle, right up to thirty-four.

Grant Miller: unstoppable, untouchable, infuriating. Watching him was like seeing the Energizer Bunny if the bunny wore Armani and ran Fortune 500 companies—relentless, polished, and a total pain in my afterlife. He powered through meetings, black-tie galas, and late-night Chinese takeout as if nothing could ever slow him down. If I could’ve lobbed a ghostly water balloon at him, I would’ve. But the guy was living—really living—even with me haunting the background.

It seemed pointless, so I turned to leave.

Maybe it was time to move on. There had to be some poor soul in Seattle who needed a ghostly wake-up call. I gave Grant one last, half-hearted curse and floated away, feeling more drained than victorious. If he wasn’t going to die, what was the point of sticking around and yelling at the sky?

A few days later, right as he was riding high, he flipped on the gas stove.

Click—the lighter sparked.

The sharp tang of gas mixed with the lingering scent of last night’s takeout. My ghostly hands trembled as the blue flame danced, just inches from disaster. I hovered in the kitchen, hands clenching and unclenching in the air, that old rivalry sparking to life one more time.

Oh God, don’t do anything stupid!

Just as the flame shot up, I rushed over, puffed out my cheeks, and blew at the lighter in Grant Miller’s hand with everything I had.

Even dead, I couldn’t help it. I went full Mom-mode, flailing my arms, panic crackling through me. I could practically smell the stale takeout and his signature expensive cologne clashing in the air. My cheeks felt like they were about to pop. “Don’t you dare, Grant!”

The gas stove hissed, threatening to turn his kitchen into a breaking news headline.

You know that noise—the one that says, if someone messes up, the whole block’s going up in smoke? That was it, right there in his marble-and-stainless-steel kitchen.

Grant slumped on the sofa, turning a broken ring between his fingers.

He looked like a ghost—designer shirt wrinkled, hair a mess, just spinning that ring as if it might answer for him. His hand shook, his jaw clenched, eyes rimmed red, fingers white-knuckling the ring as if it might anchor him to this world.

His sharp face looked washed out—like someone had drained the color and left only shadows and bones. I almost forgot to stay mad.

I took a deep breath—if you could call it that, being dead.

Puff.

The flame flickered.

My lungs—or whatever I had—felt like they were on fire. Still, I forced out one last, desperate gust, praying to whatever ghostly forces were listening that it’d be enough.

Finally, the flame went out.

I collapsed to the floor, vision swimming, heart thudding wild.

If anyone had seen me—face-down, gasping, see-through as cellophane—they’d have called both Ghostbusters and 911. I couldn’t feel my hands, but at least Grant was still breathing.

Who would’ve thought—Grant Miller had lost his mind.

A grown man, actually playing with fire to burn himself alive.

Are you out of your mind? Dying on my watch is a nightmare, you know? Some people just never stop being a pain, no matter how old they get.

God, Grant. After all those years of trading insults, now you’re about to become a tragic headline. I wanted to shake him—just like the old days, when I’d threaten to leak his most embarrassing high school pics. But I was the only one who could see what he was about to lose.

Grant’s eyelashes trembled as he looked in my direction.

His pale eyes were empty.

For a moment, I swear he looked right through me. The way he stared—like he was searching for something he’d lost a lifetime ago—made my chest ache, even if it shouldn’t have.

A few seconds later—click.

Oh God, don’t die! I won’t curse you anymore! Please, I don’t want to get dragged into the Afterlife Bureau for a lecture, oh God!

My little sidekick, lips chapped from blowing, turned to me with a bitter face and asked:

“Boss, didn’t you say he was your nemesis? But now he looks like he’s ready to die for you.”

Jamie—always popping up when you least want the peanut gallery. He was as awkward as a kid at a middle school dance, but his timing was impeccable. The way he looked at me, you’d think I’d just tanked the whole Afterlife Bureau’s quarterly numbers.

……

I want to know too—what kind of stunt is he pulling now?

Even dead, Grant Miller made everything about him feel like a puzzle I couldn’t solve.