Chapter 1: The Ghost in My Skin

Across lifetimes—we cycle through centuries like seasons, not a literal thousand spent side by side—after the last long go-round as bonded partners, Caleb Mercer went hunting for his supposed lifesaver, Aubrey.

I remember the day he showed up at my door, stubborn and exhausted, dead bugs crusted on his windshield and a Circle K coffee cooling in the cup holder, dirt still on his boots from the I‑40 run near Flagstaff. Caleb Mercer was the kind of guy who would chase a ghost across state lines if he thought it meant keeping a promise. When he finally tracked down Aubrey, she looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks—breath rattling, a tremor in her hands, skin gone sallow and eyes sunken. The years had run her ragged, and her time was just about up.

She was in terrible shape in the way you can smell it—paper-dry skin, lips cracked, pulse fluttering at her throat. Before she died, she had only one wish—to marry Caleb Mercer.

It was the kind of wish you hear in Appalachian murder ballads, steel guitar low and tragic, desperate and full of heartbreak. Aubrey was clutching at whatever happiness she could grab before the final curtain. I stood in the background, watching the way her fingers curled around Caleb’s hand—fragile, determined. The only thing she wanted before crossing over was a wedding ring and a quiet ceremony.

I told him Aubrey was wearing my face, and that I had ruined my own face to save him; he'd repaid the favor to the wrong person. I braced for his denial anyway, stupid hope gnawing at me that he might finally see me.

I confronted Caleb on the porch one rainy evening, the screen door creaking, rain pinging the tin awning, and the smell of wet creosote rising from the yard. "You’re in love with a ghost in my skin," I told him, my voice brittle. I’d paid for his life with scars and silence. His eye flickered, his throat worked, his jaw clenched—then he looked at me like I was spinning tall tales, shaking his head in disbelief. The world had turned upside down, and he couldn’t see what was right in front of him.

He refused to believe it and insisted on breaking the bond with me.

No matter how many times I told him the truth, Caleb clung to his own version of the past. He signed the papers, left the ring on the kitchen table—cold against the wood—and walked out into the Arizona dusk without a backward glance. The AC hummed, the fridge motor kicked on, and the silence sat heavy. It was final. He had chosen Aubrey, and the rest of us were left to pick up the pieces.

After Aubrey died, he retrieved from a hidden realm a relic that could take us back a thousand years.

That relic—some dusty artifact hidden in an old church basement outside Flagstaff—was the stuff of legends, whispered about by old-timers at a Route 66 dive and VFW halls. When Caleb came back with it, his eyes were wild, half-mad with grief and purpose. Dust motes swirled in stained light, a neon cross flickered outside, and the air around him hummed with old magic and regret—a thing that always exacts a price.

He said to me, "This time I’m not marrying you, and I won’t let Aubrey get dragged through hardship."

His words hung in the air, stubborn as ever. "Here’s the thing, Lil—I won’t let you tie me down. Aubrey deserves a better fate. This time, nobody gets hurt because of me." He talked like a man possessed, as if he could rewrite the past with sheer willpower, knuckles white around the relic.

And I will absolutely never save him again.

I made my own promise, cold and sharp: I’d let him fend for himself—even if it meant letting the ward fail, even if it meant watching fate take him. Whatever storms were coming, Caleb could weather them alone. I was done playing the savior. The desert wind rattled the windowpanes, the ring glinted on the table like a tiny moon, and I felt something inside me finally break free.