I had found a new hiding spot today. Up in the west wing, where only guests ventured this far, was a dusty and long-abandoned servant’s staircase, which spiraled down and ended in a brick wall. It was down there I had crouched, plain skirts collecting cobwebs while I idly curled a faded ribbon around my finger, over and over, until I released it and watched it spin into a loose spiral, only to pick the end back up and repeat it again and again in the dim light. It was peaceful down here, and a notable lack of ghosts finally gave my mind some rest.

I’ve always been able to see deceased spirits, flitting around going about the business they did when they were alive, chattering to themselves, seeming not to notice that they had been drained of nearly all color until all that remained was a pale blue, and they seemed to glow ever so slightly. And if you focused hard enough, you could see right through them. Following the same tracks and hangouts as when they were alive, I could see them nearly everywhere I went. They were most concentrated in old, popular areas, but in small corners such as the one I had tucked myself into, I was far less likely to spot a specter.

The sounds of footsteps coming down the stairs brought me out of my methodic ribbon twirling. I winced as each step seemed to penetrate my mind. I quickly stood up and flattened myself against the wall as the ghost of what appeared to be a servant like me, though long ago deceased, came down the stairs holding a tray and humming a cheerful tune, each note like a slender needle through my brain. I watched her walk straight through the wall, paying me nor the barrier no mind as they always do. I could still hear her song as she moved away briskly, until finally the pain in my head lessened and eventually vanished.

I sighed as I stood up, simultaneously tying my black hair back up into the ponytail that kept it out of my way, and ignoring the impulse to rub my temples. It never helped. I never knew why, but any sound a ghost made- from the tapping of their footsteps to their ethereal voices as they carried conversations long passed- it always sent spikes of pain through my head. It was why I would always come up with excuses to not go to the town square, one of the largest ghost haunts in town, and would always come seeking hidden, quiet corners where people, living and dead, were less likely to frequent.

I suppose everything comes with a price, I mused as I headed up the stairs and through the nearly invisible door set in the wall. Though it seems a bit unfair when I didn’t ask for this in the first place.

A cursory glance out a window revealed what I had guessed: complete darkness apart from the flickering lights of the lanterns and stars. I had missed dinner, both to serve at and for myself. While the master of the house is a fair, if busy man, this had been happening more and more often. Maybe nobody will notice. I’m just one serving girl out of several.

With a quick spin on my heel, I started hurrying through secret passages and down narrow, claustrophobic staircases until I arrived at what the serving girls referred to as “The Dungeon.” It wasn’t really a dungeon, but the house we all worked at used to be a courthouse before wings were added and it was turned into a stately manor, however it still retained remnants of its past self, like the grand hall, which used to be the courtroom, the belltower up top, which could only be reached through a hefty hike, and the holding cells kept in the basement. By hanging sheets over the bars and bringing in suitable furniture, they were able to be turned into quarters for the servants and other workers, with girls being in the left hallway and boys to the right. I could hear the guys cheering for something through their thick door, the locks long removed.

With a soft grunt, I pushed open the heavy door that led to the girl’s hall, and entered into a rainbow. Multiple sheets and fabrics lined the bars, affording privacy and a sign of who resided there. From the heavy tapestry of the stocky girl from the northernmost mountains, to the fraying rectangle of a faded yellow cotton sheet that marked the room little Aviva shared with Cadence, who barricaded her half of the cell from the hallway using a multicolored quilt in hues of purple and blue. Girls raced from cell to cell, most in their simple brown servant’s uniforms but some already in their sleeping clothes. A cacophony of different languages filled the air, as they swapped stories and traded speculations on what would happen tomorrow. My ears could only pick out the common Geolin, which was native to where all we lived near the center, the eastern Somnian, which was spoken where I had grown up, and a few words from the northwestern Juvenith, which I was still learning.

Not ones to be left out from the chaos, two ghostly guards were present in the hall today, one leaning against the farthest wall, seemingly about to fall asleep, and the other walking up and down the cells, keeping a watchful eye on where the prisoners would have been as he passed through girls, with neither the living nor the deceased recognizing the existence of the other. Carefully edging my way around a small group of babbling girls, the cook’s assistants by the smell of them, I spotted a red-haired girl, eyes wide as she stood flattened against the wall clutching a faded and torn bag. 

Probably another immigrant, sent here in hopes of making a better life for herself. I thought to myself, making a beeline for the poor thing. It was a common occurrence, with skilled jobs rapidly dwindling everywhere as countries turned their focus to cultivating more and more land, trying to feed their people until the blight that plagued all of their crops passed. It had come a few years ago, and food was rapidly disappearing as people died from starvation. Those with some money left would send their children inland, where there were still plenty of opportunities besides farming and manual labor, but most of them ended up ultimately working a job as a servant or other low-paying occupations. It was enough to make a living, and some positions, such as the one I was in, would give you room and board. However, it wasn’t better than an occupation that you could’ve gotten back home, except for here now you’re separated from your family. This small, shivering thing seemed to be one of those children sent away in hopes of a better life.

Approaching her, I knelt down until I was eye level with her, and said in the common Geolin “Are you new here?”

Petrified, she nodded and whispered “I just came in.”

“Here,” I said, extending a hand, “I can get you set up with a room, a uniform, and where you should be going tomorrow. Okay, that isn’t entirely true, I can’t do all that, but I can take you to Emerson, who is in charge of all of us here and can do that.”

Looking like I had just thrown her a lifeline, she extended a pale hand and clasped my light brown palm with hers, and I started to lead her through the chaotic mass and towards the second-to-last cell on the left, marked with a beautifully patterned silk cloth on the right of the door and a more subdued striped navy and white linen sheet on the left. Drawing out a rusty key from my pocket, I inserted it into the keyhole of the cell door and pushed it open with some noticeable squeaking of the hinges. 

Once I stepped inside, the clamor from the hallways faded significantly as my eyes adjusted to the dimmer room, only lit by two candles on each nightstand and moonlight filtering in through a barred window. It was a small room, entirely built of cool gray bricks, with worn carvings and hash marks etched into the walls from the prisoners that used to reside in here awaiting judgement. Two beds sat in each corner, with my bed on the left being almost neatly made, with only an extra blanket tossed carelessly on top of the quilt and a pillow slumped over and crooked along the headboard. In contrast, Emerson’s bed was a disheveled mess, with pillows and blankets tossed onto it with no regard, the comforter partially on the floor and the pillow smushed into the corner between the wall and footboard. We each had a chest at the foot of our beds and a nightstand, with my chest and nightstand just shy of perfection but her belongings scattered everywhere, nearly encroaching on my space. 

And pushing open the curtains we had installed over the barred window against the far wall to let in the surprisingly warm air of the evening was my roommate, long blond hair catching the moonlight as she turned to greet me, hazel eyes instantly flitting to the small girl clutching my hand. 

“Another one?” Emerson asked me, keeping her gaze on the girl. I nodded, gently trying to start the process of extracting my hand from hers. She came over and knelt down until she was eye level with the girl, and asked, “What’s your name, honey?”
“Marley,” she whispered, tightening her grip on my hand. I could feel my fingers starting to tingle as circulation was cut off.

“Hiya Marley,” Emerson said, giving her a gentle smile, “My name’s Emerson, and I’m kind of in charge around here. Why don’t you let go of my friend here and I can find a room for you?” Marley almost immediately released my hand and grabbed at Emerson’s outstretched hand, clinging to her like she had clung to me only seconds before. My friend started to lead her out into the hallway, cheerfully peppering Marley with questions as the cell door swung shut behind her.

Crossing the room to finish the job of opening the curtains, I marveled at the unseasonably warm autumn air. Don’t think Emerson and I will get to wear those new coats to the festival tomorrow, I thought to myself turning around to get ready for bed when I noticed a ghost. I had seen him many times before, a boy around my age that would sit in the corner huddled up facing the wall, occasionally moving to stretch out and lay on the ground or pace by the door. He wore a heavy, if patchy, coat and had the fluffiest hair I had ever seen on a person, living or dead. But what always got me most was his expression- so alert, yet so unaware of the existence of the living. He was the ghost I would see the most often, usually for a few days at a time before disappearing for a couple of weeks and then reappearing. I had once combed through old records kept at the local library, although I had no basis on how to identify him, so it ended with nothing besides frustration and a growing headache from deceased patrons holding some sort of meeting between the shelves. 

“How’s your hand?” Emerson’s voice startled me, I hadn’t heard the door open to announce her presence. “Marls has got quite a grip on her,” she continued, flopping down onto her bed.

“You can say that again,” I murmur, dismissing thoughts of ghosts and fruitless searching, kneeling down to open my chest and fish around for my bedclothes. 

“Nicola.” Emerson spoke so firmly that I nearly flinched, straightening up to see that she had propped herself up on her elbows to stare right at me. “You skipped dinner again.”

I relaxed some; had the uncomfortable feeling that she was about to declare that she knew of my ability. I had never told anyone, because chances are they would just think that I’m crazy and I might be fired. “I lost track of time.”

Emerson narrowed her eyes at me. A long silence hung in the air before she reached into her pocket and pulled out some bread, the smell of cinnamon filling the room.

“Last time, okay?” she said, stretching out to hand it to me.

I smiled, taking it. “Last time,” I said, though this was the eighth “Last time.” 

“Ready for the festival tomorrow?” Emerson started cheerfully, blowing out her candle and settling in among her mess of blankets.

“Mhm.” I mumbled, continuing my way through the bread.

“Very warm this year… hopefully we won’t fall asleep during the Scholar’s... lecture… honestly can you call it anything else?” Emerson went on, voice started to drop as fatigue overtook her. “Hopefully Wilhelm makes those little cake balls again…” Eventually her deep breathing filled the room as she dropped into slumber.

I looked over at the ghost boy who was curled up in the corner facing the wall as normal, completely motionless apart from his slender fingers occasionally tapping at the stone floor. Finishing off the bread I felt my eyelids getting heavier as I curled up on top of my covers, already too far gone into tiredness to bother climbing under them, and fell into a deep sleep, questions upon questions petering off into nothingness. 

I woke up with a start when something large and heavy struck my stomach and sent me turning onto my other side, gasping for air.

“Nicowa! Ge’ up!” Emerson shouted with a slice of meat hanging from her mouth as she frantically tried to do the laces on her boots, one of her pillows missing from her bed. “We’we ‘ate!”

“Not very ladylike to throw things at people and speak with your mouth full,” I grumbled, sitting up and shoving the improvised projectile away from me until what she said registered in my brain. “Late? What- how?”

Emerson garbled something through her breakfast that I translated to “We both slept through the clock chiming.”

“How?!” I exclaimed. “You’re supposed to be a light sleeper!”

Finally taking her food out of her mouth, Emerson said “Lucius snuck in again, and I had to spend hours comforting him because he had a nightmare.” She scowled as she yanked her laces tight and said “Be glad you don’t have a little brother.”

“I’d be happy just being on time, can you run ahead and get us spots since I still need to…” and I gestured to my sleep-rumpled clothes as Emerson frantically nodded, already halfway out the door.

I quickly darted over to my chest, but stopped short as I saw the ghost still present and stretched out, neck disappearing into the side of my chest as the head rested on the floor inside of it, where I needed to be. I had always avoided touching ghosts, if just listening to them gave me a headache I didn’t want to know what touching them must be like, even if they seemed to phase through most everything. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any time, if you didn’t attend the “Honorable recital of our city's origins” it was basically as good as setting fire to the stage in the eyes of the Scholar and the nobility. And the master of the house, who had a bit of prestige in the city being a veteran, would be scanning the crowd to make sure all of his workers were present. Cursing my luck, I threw open the lid of the chest and plunged my hand in straight towards the boy’s face, aiming to grab the blouse poking out from underneath a spare skirt.

However, my fingers crashed into the boy’s forehead and I stumbled back gasping from the collision as he sat up straight and looked in my direction. No, he was looking straight at me, into my eyes, as the slight glow that every ghost had abruptly vanished.

“What’s-” he started before pain exploded in my head and I slammed my hands over my ears in an attempt to block his voice out. Concerned, he opened his mouth to say something but I frantically shook my head and removed one of my hands from my ears to press a finger to my lips. I took a deep breath to settle myself before tentatively removing my hands and studying the ghost.

He looked mostly the same, except for the fact that he was no longer glowing and seemed to be aware of his new surroundings. His eyes darted around trying to take everything in, until his gaze settled on his hand, anxiously drumming on his knee, and a surprised and confused expression overtook his face.

“...Hi?” I started out. My voice sounded wrong in the air as his attention shifted back up to me. He opened his mouth to respond, but then when I flinched he closed it and brought his hand up in a wave. After an awkward moment, he pointed to his hand.

“Oh, um,” I said, “Yeah, I don’t know how to say this, but you’re kind of… dead…”

He blinked at me.

“Um, here,” I stutter, and move my hand towards the chest, “Try to move through this.”

He gave me a look of disbelief before he moved his hand in a straight line right through my belongings. He staggered back, wide-eyed. He looked at me but I was already shaking my head.

“No, I don’t know how you died, or even who you are, or what’s going on.” I said, bringing my knees up to my chest, trying to dismiss the millions of questions speeding through my head. I watched as he straightened up with purpose and scooted off to his corner, eyes scanning around before he brightened and turned to me, pointing to something on the wall by the floor. Curious, I moved over and saw a name stretching out in faded, carved letters.

“Harlow?” He smiled and nodded. I rack my brain to try and remember if I knew that name from any of my research but I couldn’t recall anything.

“Okay,” I breathed out, “First things first. I’m Nicola and… I can see ghosts like you.” It’s the first time I’ve ever admitted that to someone, it feels strange. “And when ghosts make noise, I get a really bad headache. No, I don’t know why. Could you possibly stick to being silent like you are now?” A nod from Harlow. “Okay. Thank you. I have some questions, if you don’t mind.” A shrug as he leans back some.

“What are you being tried for?” A heavy question, though a necessary one to know who I was dealing with. He seemed nice, but he was in the cells beneath the former courthouse. I watched as he looked up to the ceiling, pondering, before reaching to the chest and pretended to pull something out before exaggeratingly tucking the pretend object into his coat.

“You’re a thief,” I guessed. He gave a guilty nod, and then mimed shoving something into his mouth. “You needed to feed yourself?” A tentative smile. 

At least I’m not dealing with a murderer. I thought to myself. My thoughts were still scrambled, so I lamely continued with, “Alright. Do you have anything useful you can communicate to me?” He shook his head sorrowfully. 

I realized with a start that Emerson was probably wondering where I was, so I quickly stood up and said hurriedly, “Okay then, well, sorry for ruining your life… death… undeath… but I really need to go.” He gave me a look of pure confusion as I opened the door and gestured for him to leave. “I have a big fancy historical festival to go to and I don’t have time to deal with this. If you just stay here, I might be able to help you later.” The words rang harshly in the air as Harlow stood up with a look of disappointment and went out into the deserted hallway. I got dressed quickly and sprinted out, hoping to make it to town before anyone noticed that I was late.

I ran through the streets, steps echoing loudly over the cobblestones. It was completely deserted, apart from pennants and flags lining the buildings and lampposts, all flying four colors that every citizen knew by heart.

A soft green for the Guardian, who shepherded innocent people to safety and protected his friends from the Affliction.

A charcoal gray for the Warrior, who fought against the Affliction through numerous fatal injuries.

An ocean blue for the Trickster, who discovered a way to harness a form of magic and used it both to help the Warrior and the Guardian.

And a pale blue for the Martyr, who appeared mysteriously near the end of their battle and saved them all from death, but at the cost of his own life. 

I slowed my run as I approached the town square. I could hear the Scholar beginning to start the recital, describing the horrible beast called the Affliction who ravaged the lands destroying towns and villages wherever it went. I rounded the bend and ducked into the crowd of people, praying that nobody would recognize me as I slipped through, looking for the shock of blond hair that was my best friend.

“Nicola!” I heard someone hiss and I turned around to spot a scowling Emerson, with Lucius clinging to her jacket and peeking out at me with curiosity, so much like his sister apart from his floppy brown hair instead of her golden locks. “Where have-” she started to spit out but then someone shushed her and she shut her mouth, still glaring at me.

I breathed a sigh of relief and turned to start listening to the Scholar, until I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Turning around, I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary until I began to turn back and jumped at the sight of Harlow right next to me. Emerson gave me a curious look but I waved her off. Harlow seemed to be content with looking around at the festivities so I just let out a silent sigh and let him be. I listened as the Scholar droned on, describing how the Guardian, Warrior, and Trickster rescued people and fought the Affliction, eventually defeating it with the sacrifice of the Martyr, leading to an era of peace as everyone rebuilt. There was some applause as everyone dispersed to start enjoying the activities and foodstuffs offered, and very quickly the sounds of laughter and conversation filled the air, mixing with the smells of different sweet and savory food.

I could see Harlow tilting his head in complete confusion. Must not have been around for the fight against the Affliction, I thought as Emerson turned to me.

“What happened?!” she demanded.

“I… had a bit of trouble,” I mumbled, scrambling for an excuse.

“Better be some big trouble,” Emerson grumbled. “Do you know how anxious I was getting?”

I looked down at the ground. “Sorry,” I said.

She studied me for a moment, then let out an exasperated sigh. “It’s alright, just don’t do that again.”

“Can we go play a game?” Lucius interrupted, eyeing one of the many stalls that lined the streets and square.

“Oh, alright, which one do you want to go to?” Emerson responded with barely concealed affection. She complained about Lucius a lot, but I’d always noticed her sneaking little things to her younger brother at dinner, or making sure that he was taking care of himself. 

“You coming?” Emerson asked as Lucius started to lead her to a stall.

I started to respond then noticed Harlow staring at something. Following his gaze, I saw three figures, two in different types of armor, and one in a cloak with the hood pulled over their face. They moved in a tight group, in a beeline towards the remnants of a forest. With an intense look, he began to follow after them quietly. 

Looking between Emerson and Harlow, I called out, “I’ll be there in a bit, I need to go do something,” before hurrying off after the ghostly thief. 

Chasing him through crowds was no easy feat, as the ghosts could all walk straight through obstacles, while I had to dodge through the crowd and squeeze past stalls. Finally, I made it to the empty streets and eventually to the remnants of the forest, the majority of the trees having been cut down for use in the town. I couldn’t see the ghosts, but I could hear a violent clamor up ahead that sent spikes of pain through my head. Pushing my way through the ache, I stumbled into a clearing.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. A giant, spectral monster stretched up above me, one giant mass with seven limbs that ended in perfect points. It was a hulking shape, like a colossal spider rippling with scales and spikes, the head being completely devoid of any facial features apart from four narrow eyes. Fighting against it was what I could tell to be an apparition of a woman in heavy armor, swinging her sword and calling out to her companions, a more lightly armored man with circles under his eyes, but determinedly using his large shield and smaller weapons to try and assist the woman. There was another ghostly man, standing a bit behind them with his cloak. He carried no weapons and bore no armor, but as I watched he drew his hands out and made a few gestures in the air and some sort of shimmering shape knocked aside a blow that was aimed towards the woman and then curved around and struck the monster in the neck.

Was that magic? I thought in a haze of pain. If that’s magic then… 

I nearly dropped from shock, forgetting my headaches for a moment. If that’s magic then that’s the Trickster. And if he’s the Trickster, then the man with the shield is the Guardian and the woman with the sword is the Warrior and what they’re fighting is… I stumbled back, quickly turning around to run away before I noticed Harlow crouched nearby, watching intensely. I could see the faintest wisps of the ghostly glow beginning to form around him.

I doubt I can convince him to leave, but I can’t leave him when I don’t know what’s happening to him. Resigned, I sat down a bit away from the fighting so the noise from the ghosts would be bearable, and tried to keep an eye on both Harlow and the fight.

The battle was more violent than the Scholar described, though otherwise accurate. I watched as the Warrior took injury after injury, the Guardian helping to defend both her and the Trickster while trying to do the best to injure the Affliction, and the Trickster stood in the back, barely shifting position apart from his mesmerizing hand movements that sent waves upon waves of magic at the monster. 

But no matter their strategies and power, the part I was dreading came up. The Affliction used brunt force to shove the Guardian into the Warrior, sending them both tumbling into the Trickster into a massive heap, the Guardian’s shield knocked aside, the Warrior unable to swing her sword so close to her friends, and the Trickster’s hands pinned beneath him as the Affliction prowled towards them. Come on… I thought desperately. Where’s the Martyr?

However, nobody came out as the Affliction raised a pointed limb, preparing to strike. Until a ghostly rock came sailing out from somewhere and struck the Affliction right in one of its eyes. It reared back with a shriek and turned to face the offender- Harlow, ghostly glow now nearly fully back as he charge the monster, shouting at the top of his lungs as I clutched at my head, simultaneously yelling from the searing pain of the ethereal noise and screaming for Harlow to stop. Frozen, I watched as the Affliction quickly advanced on him, barely sparing him a thought as it stabbed a limb through his chest. Harlow went limp.

I couldn’t move. I was distressed over Harlow but also so confused- how could he be the Martyr? He was nothing more than a ghost whose life has already been lived, so I couldn’t have led him here to make his sacrifice.

Oblivious to me, the Warrior quickly disentangled herself from her friends and hefted her sword, charging the Affliction one last time as she pierced her weapon into the monster’s neck. The Affliction let out one final cry before it sank into the ground, unmoving. I watched as the Guardian made his way over to Harlow, crouching down to check his pulse before standing back up and shaking his head at his companions. The Warrior, despite her wounds, knelt down in silence, paying her respects before unsteadily standing back up as the Guardian gently lifted Harlow’s body and the three heroes spoke a few quiet words to each other before the Guardian and the Warrior departed.

But the Trickster stayed, standing over the Affliction for a moment before turning to face me, tilting his head in curiosity as he lowered his hood. 

“You can see me,” he said. The Trickster spoke it like it was a simple fact, though that wasn’t what surprised me.

“You.. you making noise doesn’t make my head hurt,” I stuttered. The ghost of a smile flitted over his face.

“And the same for you. Thank goodness, I’m sure you know how exhausting it is.”

“I- what?” I was completely dumbfounded. He walked over to me and sank to the ground with a relieved groan, gesturing for me to take a seat with him.

“Do excuse me if I’m wrong, but not a lot of people have studied this sort of thing,” he began as I sat down beside him, “ However, I’m guessing you haven’t reached the same theory about our… additional sight, if you will?”

“Well,” I stammered, acutely aware of the fact that I was talking to a literal legend. “I know that I can see ghosts, the remains of people long dead.”

The Trickster studied me for a moment. He was older than I thought he was, with wavy hair and the beginnings of a beard on his face. “Semi-correct, according to my theory.” 

Not caring about theories and complex studies, I interrupted with an impatient “But why can you see me?”

“Simple,” the Trickster said, “Just as you can see echoes of the past, I can see echoes of the future. Everything here is perfectly real to me, and you’re nothing but a ghost.”

I took a minute to digest the implications. “Harlow…?”

“Is that his name? I’m sorry about what happened. But yes, he seemed perfectly real to me. Maybe a tad ghostly, you wouldn’t have happened to have touched him, have you?” I nodded. “Hm, interesting. Contact seems to bring them temporarily into our time, to see what we see in addition to what they can perceive…” he started to mumble to himself, studying the sky.

“Did…” I said hoarsely, “Did I just change history?”

The Trickster turned his attention back to me and gave me a crooked smile. “You know, people always theorize about changing history, but I personally believe it’s set in stone, and you’re just fulfilling your role no matter what you may think. You didn’t change history- you just played your part.”

I sat in stunned silence as the Trickster withdrew a battered notebook from his cloak and began to write something down in a small, looping script. He eventually looked up at me, and said “What do you go by?”

“Nicola.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Nicola,” the Trickster said as he stood up and straightened himself out. “My name is Cain.” He turned to leave.

“Wait!” I called out. “I- I have so many questions… but I can’t think…”

“It’s all right,” he said. “We might run into each other again. But I advise you to try and find answers on your own- there’s no fun in listening to some guy lecture you for hours on end.”

“Can’t you stay for a bit longer? Just tell me some things?” I asked desperately, standing up as well.

Cain let out a short laugh. “What did I just say? Besides,” he said as he started to walk after his companions, “The theater of time is calling me to center stage, I have a role to play.”