Gladys

Devon's coffee mug keeps moving.

Not dramatically. Not flying across the room or shattering against the wall. Just migrating three inches to the left every time he looks away. A software developer who works from home and hasn't left the house for anything meaningful in months, Devon assumes he's losing his mind until he does what any reasonable person would do.

He follows a WikiHow article on how to conduct a seance.

It works. It works too well. Devon is now a ghost, and Gladys Finch, a widow who died in this house in 1958, is wearing his body like a new coat and weeping with joy over cold pad thai.

Sixty-six years without tasting anything. Without touching anything. Without a single conversation. Gladys is not eager to give the body back.

Devon has a more immediate problem. His spirit is dissolving. Ghosts need an anchor, and he doesn't have one. He's fading at the edges, losing words, forgetting the color of his own eyes. If Gladys doesn't return his body before the replacement candles arrive, there won't be a Devon to return it to.

Then his mother calls. Gladys answers. And the phrase "I'm writing the codes" enters the conversation.

Mom is coming over.