Later that night, Amelia and Mike are over at my house for the first time and we're on my laptop searching up "345 Pine Estates Dr. history". Mike had asked me if one of his other close friends, Ryder – who often spends time at our apartment – could tag along with them and I had grudgingly agreed. Ryder and I used to be really close too, once upon a time, but now it's become difficult for me to be around him. Not that I would ever admit it to Mike.

Once they'd come over, I'd filled them in on the story I heard from the cashier at the grocery store. I also told them in detail about the man I'd seen the night before, as well as the strange comment the movers made about my 'husband' signing the papers.

"Right, you did mention someone was at your door while we were on the phone last night," Mike recalls, and I can practically see the gears turning behind his darkened blue eyes as he mulls over my story.

"Yeah, and when I went to open the door ten seconds later, he wasn't there anymore. And I couldn't help but remember him again today when the movers made that weird comment. But why would this guy sign paperwork for me anyways? It's just such a strange thing to do," I say, thinking out loud.

"Maybe it's his way of letting you know that he's around. All the time," Amelia says, her eyes wide, voice lowered conspiratorially.

"Maybe you have a stalker?" Ryder suggests, his eyebrows furrowing, dark thoughts churning in his forest green eyes.

"I doubt I'd suddenly get a stalker right after moving. Maybe the brother who got the inheritance is still obsessed with the house for some reason. Maybe he never left town," I say.

"If he was obsessed with the house, why would he sell it though? He could've just kept it for himself," Amelia points out.

"Maybe he needed the money for some reason, but he couldn't actually let the place go," Mike chimes in.

As Amelia, Mike, and Ryder debate about different theories, I continue my search. Most of the articles that pop up seem irrelevant. I see articles about random other estates, and even one about the history of pine trees, and can't help but roll my eyes in frustration. Even though it didn't exactly happen on the property, how are there no articles about the tragedy? Despite this being a small town, I'm sure at least some local paper or magazine would cover these types of events.

I login to my email and pull up the purchase agreement that I signed for the house. The document seems endless as I scroll through it until my eyes finally land on what I'm looking for. The name of the seller that I'd glanced over so many times without a second thought while signing the contract. A very plain, unnoticeable name until it's suddenly of interest.

Marcus Remington.

Into the search bar, I enter Marcus Remington Chestnut Grove.

Bingo.

The first thing to pop up is his LinkedIn profile. Project Manager at a tech company in New York. He appears reasonably successful, judging from his job title at least, so I'm not sure if Mike's theory about him needing money necessarily stands. Titles and appearances can be misleading though, so I don't want to make any assumptions. "Here he is, the brother that sold me the house!" I exclaim.

The four of us huddle around my laptop as I click open his profile. Though the man in the profile picture shares some physical features with the man I've been seeing around the property, I can clearly tell it's not the same person. The man in the LinkedIn photo has bright green eyes and a soft jawline, while the man I saw last night had darker eyes, a sharp jawline, and angled cheekbones.

"It's not him. But he does have some similarities," I say, sighing, a sense of trepidation creeping in as I consider the remaining possibility.

Ryder's eyes apprehensively shift to meet mine, and I quickly realize he's reached the same conclusion. "You're probably seeing his brother who died, Stella. The ghost of the man who used to live here."

"But he didn't die in the house. Don't ghosts only haunt the place of their death?" I ask.

"No, ghosts can also haunt places that were important to them during their lifetime. If the man lived here for a long time and was emotionally attached to it, it's completely reasonable he might appear here. Especially if he died in a sudden accident or committed suicide. His soul might not be at peace," Amelia says.

"Are you sure? Where did you learn all that?" I ask, turning to her, surprised.

"That TV show, Ghost Hunters," she says, her expression completely serious, and Mike bursts out laughing, momentarily breaking the tension.

I playfully slap his arm. "Mike! We're being serious right now."

"Please be for real. You're seriously going to take information she got from some staged reality show?" he asks, still smirking.

"It's not staged! It's all real!" Amelia protests.

I can't help but let a small smile spill onto my lips.

"I don't know, okay? I don't know much about ghosts, but I need something to work with." I run my hands over the face, the stress finally starting to catch up to me.

I notice Ryder pointedly nudge him, and Mike quickly regains a serious demeanor, picking up on my anxiety,     

"Genuinely though, I think you need to be careful, Stella. I'm not usually one to believe in the paranormal, but from what you've been describing, I'm not sure what else to think. Other than maybe that you have a stalker...and I'm not sure what's worse," Mike admits.

"Depends on the intention of the ghost, if it is one. Maybe he needs help with...closure? Crossing over? But if he's here just to haunt me or scare me, that's a different matter. Then a stalker might be better honestly," I say.

Ryder shifts closer to me. He can still read me better than anyone. My gaze flits over to him just for a moment as I feel his arm protectively drape around my tense shoulders, and the heat in his eyes takes me back to one emotional summer night when we had crossed the boundaries of friendship. A flashback of heavy rain on window panes, warm skin, whispered confessions, and our intertwined hands. I push the memories away as quickly as they come rushing in, since we had mutually decided to never speak of it again.

"I'll try to see if I can find any photos of the previous owners and confirm anything. I just appreciate you guys taking me seriously and not writing me off as delusional. Because I swear I saw a man here last night. I even had a dream about him," I say.

Amelia gasps. "Dreaming can be a sign too. Sometimes they might try to channel something through your dreams – he might be trying to tell you something. What did you dream about?"

I can sense Mike trying hard to hold it together to not laugh again after Amelia's comment,  and I can't decide whether to be amused or annoyed by him. I choose to ignore him.

"Nothing much...I had a dream he was at my door again and we shook hands. I invited him in, but he didn't come inside and just disappeared."

"Hmm...well, keep me updated on any dreams about him. I have a book about the hidden meanings behind dreams so I'll look into it."

"Thanks, Amelia. I mean, honestly, I hope I don't dream about him again, but if I do, you'll be the first to know."

That night, Amelia and I share the bed, Ryder takes the chaise, and Mike takes the loveseat, all four of us in the master bedroom. I have a lot of furniture in my room, but it's perfect for nights like this. We talk and laugh late into the night. Our conversations speculating about ghostly entities quickly turns to lighter topics. Everyone starts to drift off one by one, until I think I'm the only one awake.

Breathing out a heavy sigh, I shift onto my left side, which turns me to face Ryder who is laid out on the chaise just a few feet away.

He's turned towards me and I quickly realize he's not asleep yet. His warm eyes connect with mine in the starlight, and the smile he gives me makes too many fond memories come crawling back.

"Don't worry, I'm planning to stay awake. No ghostly man will get you on my watch. My wildflower," he whispers, winking, his voice softening at the end, and my idiotic heart flutters at his stupid old nickname for me.

I squeeze my eyes shut as tightly as possible, trying to suppress the memories, trying to block him out. For a while, I lay there in torment, the soft sound of Ryder breathing just a few feet away from me seeming thunderous in my ears. My limbs crave to pull myself out of bed and crawl into his arms, but I will myself to stay in place. Eventually, the exhaustion of the day finally kicks in and I gladly slip into the quiet escape of sleep.

For better or for worse, the only thing that haunts my dreams that night is the secret memory of Ryder's soft lips on mine, one year ago.