Page 116 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

It all felt so real.

But he wasn’t. He couldn’t be, because somewhere across the city, in the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, Theodore Manford lay in a sterile bed, unmoving and unconscious.

A stroke, Maddy had said. An induced coma.

This isn’t him, Augustine told herself. Not really. It’s just a version of him. A memory given shape. A fragment my magic has pulled into something almost whole. Something convincing enough to touch. To believe in. But it’s not him. Not truly.

Theo shifted slightly under her stare, something uncertain flickering across his face now. “Augustine?”

Then he moved. Before she could think — before she could stop him — he crossed the space between them in two quick strides, his hands finding her waist, knowing where to go, lifting her clean off her feet. “God, you’re back,” he breathed, and then he was kissing her. It was relief and urgency and something almost desperate, his mouth warm and familiar against hers, his grip tight like he thought she might disappear if he didn’t hold on hard enough.

And, God, he felt real. He felt so alive.

Augustine made a small sound against his mouth before her instincts betrayed her, and her hands came up to his shoulders, gripping him just as tightly. For a second — just one — she let herself fall into it. Let herself be kissed. Let herself kiss back.

Finally, Theo pulled away, still holding her, his eyes searching her face. “What did you find out?” he asked quickly. “What did Maddy say? Was it—” his voice caught slightly, just for a second — “was it her? Was she the one who did this to us?”

Augustine blinked at him, her thoughts scrambling to catch up. Slowly, she nodded. “It was her,” she confirmed. She couldn’t say anything more. Not then.

Theo’s grip on her tightened slightly. “Why?” he asked, but Augustine couldn’t answer. Carefully, almost reluctantly, she pulled herself out of his arms, and while her feet hit the floor, she didn’t step away. Instead, she sank down, folding onto the worn wooden boards like her legs had simply given up on holding her.

Theo frowned immediately. “Augustine?”

She looked up at him, and her gaze traced his face like she was trying to memorize it. She took in the eyes she loved in this life and in the one before it, losing herself in their wonderful blue.

“You look so real,” she said softly. “So real.”

“What?” he said, thrown now. “What’s going on?”

“Maybe it's magic,” Augustine conceded sadly. “Or maybe there was a part of me so desperate for you to return, the part of me that remembered you even when you were blocked from my mind, that I conjured you out of nothing.”

“I’m real,” Theo insisted. “You know I am. I’m dead, a ghost, but I’m re—”

“No,” she cut him off sadly. “No, you’re not real. And you’re not dead, either.”

“I’m dead.” Theo slipped to the floor himself now. “I was shot, I felt it—”

“What you felt was the stroke you had. Ten days ago now. It didn’t kill you though. You — your body, that is — is lying in an ICU unit over at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital. You’re not dead, Theo.”

“No,” Theo said, a little too quickly. “No, that . . . that doesn’t— Augustine, that doesn’t make any sense. A stroke? I’m too young for a stroke.”

She cleared her throat. “Maddy looked it up. It was a combination of your diabetes and plain bad luck. You’re right, though. You are young. So, according to the NHS website Maddy checked, you should make a full recovery. And when you wake up—” she gestured around her — “you won’t remember any of this. You won’t remember me.”

“Of course I will, of course I—”

“You won’t.” There was no point in dragging it out, Augustine realized. No point in delaying the inevitable. “Because you’re not real, Theo. The Theo who is real — the one who’s lying in that hospital bed — he’s going to wake up one day, and he won’t remember this. Won’t remember the past few days. Because it wasn’t him.”

“So, what am I?” Theo went on, gesturing vaguely at himself. “I’m — what — some kind of projection? A magical echo?” A sarcastic laugh slipped out. “I’m standing right here.”

“I know.”

“You can touch me.”

“I know.”

“So how—?” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once like he needed to move. Then he stopped and looked at her again, something sharper creeping into his expression. “How am I here?”

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “Maybe the coma is allowing your mind to fight Maddy’s spell. Or maybe my subconscious was so desperately missing you I conjured you out of nothing.” She paused. “Or maybe it's just magic.”