The Touch That Hurt

After Nathan met Rachel, she never dreamed a complete dream again.

The first time they met was at a funeral. Both wore black suits, standing at the edge of the crowd, strangers to everyone. He handed her a tissue, and when she took it, their fingertips touched—his impossibly warm. She didn’t thank him. He didn’t ask why she was crying.

But that night, she dreamed of a man standing at the top of a lighthouse, reaching out his hand, his voice low like a deep ocean current.

Three days later, at 2 AM, she was smoking on the steps of the emergency room when he appeared again. A black sedan silently pulled up beside her, window halfway down revealing his face.

“Get in.”

“Where are we going?”

“To find out why we’re both haunted by the same ghost.”

Rachel looked at him for a long moment. Then she opened the car door and got in.

She never did find out who the ghost was. But she found out something else.

That some connections aren’t formed in life.

They’re forged in death.