The Day the Ghosts Arrive

The days passed,
and the air in my lungs
kept being quietly stolen
slowly,
deliberately,
until my chest felt hollow,
stripped clean
with nothing left to give.

The ache beneath my ribs
throbbed louder each morning,
a reminder of what was coming
but the lifeless cold
settled in our home
long before anyone spoke her name.

My heart pounded
with every step I took,
moving through hallways
thick with spirits
too many to count,
their silence heavier
than any scream.

I shivered constantly,
but no warmth stayed.
Not blankets.
Not breath.
Not prayer.

My mother called me over
to look at my sister.
She couldn't see the spirits
but even she felt it:
something had already begun.

My sister lay in bed,
eyes still flickering with light,
but her cheeks were hollow,
her gaze sinking inward
as if death was already
loosening her from her body.

Then a woman
appeared at my shoulder,
her presence colder
than the winter I carried in my bones.

Her voice
icy, soft, absolute
whispered in my ear:

"This is her last night.
Say goodbye."

I turned.
No one was there.

But my sunshine
looked toward the empty space
exactly where the woman stood
and then back at me,
her eyes full of a knowing
no one her age should ever understand.

We said nothing.
But everything between us
collapsed into that silence.

She didn't want to go.
Her eyes begged for more time.
More days.
More sunlight.

And every time she resisted,
another spirit stepped forward
gentle, firm,
letting me know she would be protected.
That she would be guided.
That she would not cross alone.

Protected...
the way she protected me
for thirteen years.

They promised to shield her
from the darkness on the other side
the void,
the unknown,
the spirits who feed
on souls still trembling
from their last breath.

I kissed her goodnight
knowing
truly knowing
that the last time I saw her alive
wasn't tonight.
It was a month ago,
when she stepped off the bus
and sunlight crowned her
for the last time.

My heart begged me
to warn the family.
To shout the truth.
To give them
one final kiss,
one final memory.

But hope
is a dangerous thing.
I clung to it
with white-knuckled hands,
praying to be wrong.

Every bone in my body
prayed to be wrong.

But the spirits crowding around her
reminded me
with every breath they emptied from the room
that visions
are not maybes.
They are aftermaths
delivered early.

Destiny.
A cruel vow
that breaks you
even as it fulfills itself.

I lay in bed,
moonlight thinning across the floor,
begging for the strength
to call my grandmother
the only one
who might believe me.

Would I give my family
the chance to say goodbye?
Or would I cling to the last scrap of hope
that I was wrong?

As my body trembled
between truth and denial,
the woman returned
walking calmly
through my wall.

She looked at me,
gentle in a way death should never be,
and said:

"It's okay.
You can let go.
We are here.
We will guide her."

And that
that moment
was the last time
I saw my sister alive.

A truth I buried in my chest.
A prophecy completed
in silence.