Page 153 of Specters & Spotlights

Elise held on to Graham and laughed against his mouth, crying now because she could, because the worst thing had happened and ended, because Ellen was behind the bridge with Jen’s arms around her, because Kevin was alive or whatever approximation of alive applied to a ghost with impeccable tailoring, because her people were still there with candles in their hands.

Because she had stood in the light.

And stayed.

The curtain touched down.

The stage went dark.

But Elise did not disappear with it.

She remained.

Rain-wet.

Breathless.

Loved.

Free.

Epilogue

ONE YEAR LATER

Elise turned the key and nudged the apartment door open with her hip, the familiar scent of wood polish and lingering lavender-sage incense greeting her like an old friend. Her messenger bag slipped against her shoulder, pulling down the neckline of her oversized tech-black tee, still dusted with the day's wig powder. She smelled faintly of hairspray and spirit gum—occupational hazards.

The lights were off, save for one.

In the corner of the living room, casting a warm, amber glow over their tiny couch and even tinier bookshelf, stood an old refurbished ghost light—rescued from a shuttered community theatre upstate and rewired by Graham himself. Its cage bulb buzzed gently, like it knew secrets.

Elise stepped inside and locked the door behind her. The apartment was small, but lived-in, loved-in. One wall held a poster from the Pride & Prejudice tour, framed and slightly crooked. Beside the ghost light, a cluster of taper candles nestled between a stack of scripts and a cracked teacup holding spent matchsticks.

From the shadows, Chaos launched.

The black cat twined between her legs with practiced entitlement, purring like a tiny engine. Elise bent down with a tired grin, scratching behind his ears. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she muttered, peeling the strap of her bag from her shoulder. “Because you’re a menace.”

Chaos responded by climbing halfway up her calf and meowing in protest, as if to say: late.

A soft clink echoed from the kitchen—ceramic against ceramic, maybe metal against glass. Elise didn’t startle. She just smiled.

Sure enough, Graham’s head appeared around the corner, his curls slightly damp and his expression irritatingly triumphant.

“I win,” he announced. “Got home first.”

His face was freshly washed, and he’d changed into that black sweater—the one with sleeves just a bit too long, snug in the shoulders, and criminally attractive in the lighting from their ghost light. He looked irritatingly well-rested for someone who’d just sung about unspoken longing under fake rain.

Elise raised an eyebrow as Chaos immediately switched loyalties, padding toward Graham like he was the only person who had ever opened a treat jar.

“You always get home first,” she said, brushing cat hair off her leggings. “I stay behind to set the rain wig. You start prepping our post-show snack situation. That’s the deal.”

“Can’t believe you’re throwing logic at me this late at night,” he sighed, retreating back into the kitchen. “Can’t you just let me have the win?”

“I let you have other things,” she said, following the scent of coffee and whatever faintly herby cologne he’d reapplied. “Just not fake victories.”

He shot her a grin over his shoulder and reached for her favorite mug—the chipped one from a backstage gift swap last year, the one Nick had painted to say Wig Witch Supreme. Graham poured slowly, carefully.

“I caffeinated you,” he said, handing her the mug like it was a peace offering. “That counts as a win.”