My eyes opened slowly. When my vision adjusted, the first thing I saw was my grandfather standing before me in a white suit. "Happy birthday, Elizabeth," he said, his voice gentle and familiar.
Tears fell down my cheeks.
He held out a bouquet of fresh pink roses, their sweet scent filling the room. I reached out a trembling hand to take them, my fingers brushing against the soft petals, and I was surprised they felt so real against my skin.
Grandpa approached the bed. Despite my usual fear of ghosts, at that moment, I wasn't terrified—just keenly aware of how much I had missed him.
Then he took my hand; his hands were thin but surprisingly warm against my palms.
"I'm not dead," he spoke as though he read my thoughts.
I blinked rapidly.
Impossible.
My grandfather had died in the fi
