Cattedrale loomed at the heart of Harnet Avenue, Asmara’s busiest boulevard. The street was a patchwork of Italian colonial-era shops, crumbling cinemas, and crowded cafes spilling warm light onto sidewalks veined with cracks. Yet nothing quite matched the cathedral’s quiet grandeur. It stood proudly in its Romanesque-Gothic glory, its spires slicing the night sky and casting jagged silhouettes against the stars. A relic to admire. I might’ve too, if I weren’t here to evict a ghost.
Its wide stone steps had long been a refuge: a rendezvous point for bored teenagers with nowhere better to go, lovesick couples whispering poorly scripted lines straight out of a rom-com, and weary travelers waiting on late buses.
Tonight, amid the usual nighttime throng, one figure stuck out like a sore thumb. The ghost was impossibly tall, broad-shouldered, and slouched on the steps as if waiting for a bus that he could never catch.
“Name’s Dawit. Twenty-eight. Died less than a month ago. Car accident,” Zorro said, snapping shut the Book of the Transient and slipping it into his satchel. “Want me to take this one, Natsnet?”
Zorro was not the ghost cleanser. I was. One of the few humans Death had strong-armed into service, I’d been tasked with convincing ghosts to sever their earthly ties to cross over to the afterlife. Ghost therapist is an unusual part-time gig for a seventeen-year-old girl, sure. But cheating death came with strings attached: a contract with Death itself.
Now I was saddled with Zorro, my undead mentor, invisible to all human eyes except mine. Whereas I’d been yanked back mid-breath and handed a second heartbeat, Zorro hadn’t been so lucky. Instead of entering the afterlife, he’d been promoted—well, I’d call it demoted—to one of Death’s errand boys. His current job? Teaching a reluctant teenager how to cleanse ghosts.
What started as an unwanted apprenticeship, at least on my side, had settled into something steadier. A partnership.
Although Zorro wanted it to be more. Bless his deluded soul.
Tonight, with my second ghost looming and inexperience clawing up my throat, Zorro—carefree Zorro, who thought everything was a joke—was the only steady thing I had. Against my better judgment, I relented.
“Fine. But no funny business this time.”
We moved closer and sat beside the ghost, but he didn’t register us until Zorro cleared his throat and called his name.
The ghost jolted like he’d been slapped. “Who are you?” He blurted out, eyes wide and wild as if he was the one seeing a ghost.
Honestly, fair.
“We’re your friendly neighborhood psychopomps,” Zorro said with a wink.
Not this again. He had promised to take it seriously. But of course, it’s all a joke to him. He was not the one Death had threatened to whack if the job went south.
“Zorro…” I warned.
He rolled his eyes, like I was the one being unreasonable.
“Apologies,” he said. “What I meant to say is: I’m Zorro, mentor to this lady with the world’s greatest sense of humor. Natsnet helps folks like you break the chains keeping them here.”
Dawit blinked. Then blinked again.
Between how young and inexperienced I looked and Zorro’s frivolous intro, the ghost probably thought we were a couple of juvenile delinquents.
“Afterlife?” Dawit finally said. “This…isn’t it?”
“Nope,” Zorro replied, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “You don’t belong here. Something is keeping you here, and you need to let it go.”
Dawit’s eyes went glassy, like he had lost all interest in the conversation. “No, thank you,” he said flatly.
“Excuse me?”
“What if I don’t want to let go?” Dawit asked. No, he challenged.
Stubborn, this one was.
“I wouldn’t recommend that,” Zorro said. The usual playfulness had drained from his voice. “The longer you stay, the more your humanity slips away. You’ll lose your memories, your sense of self. Eventually, you’ll become something else entirely. A poltergeist.”
I winced. I’d had my fair share of encounters with poltergeists during my short tenure. Monstrous in appearance, they preyed on ghosts and humans to survive.
“And when that happens,” Zorro went on. “There’s no afterlife, no second chances. You’ll have to be put down.”
Dawit’s brow furrowed. “How long do I have?”
“Weeks. Months, if you’re lucky. Depends on how long you can hold on. But make no mistake, it’s inevitable.”
Dawit held his ground. “Then I’ll hold on as long as I can.”
Zorro’s face darkened. “You don’t understand the stakes.”
My patience was wearing thin. Zorro was going about it all wrong. He might have been in the game longer, but he hadn’t been human in a very long time. He’d forgotten how selfish people could be. Warnings wouldn’t work. Dawit didn’t care what happened to anyone else.
We needed to figure out what he wanted. And then we needed to offer him something better.
“Move,” I said, tapping Zorro’s shoulder.
He opened his mouth to protest but paused when he met my eyes. With a small shrug, he slid aside without a word. We swapped seats.
I turned to Dawit, forcing a gentleness into my voice I didn’t quite feel. I’d been working nonstop for two weeks. My body was sore. My bones ached.
And Dawit?
He was one of many ghosts I needed to cleanse—out of dozens still haunting Harnet Avenue—just to stay on Death’s good side.
“Dawit, what are you hoping to achieve by staying here?” I ask, keeping my voice low and shielding my mouth with my hands.
I had to live in the world of the living—unenthusiastically, ironically—and I couldn’t afford to look like I’d lost my marbles. At least, not yet.
Dawit’s eyes flicked to me, heavy and haunted. “She used to pass by Cattedrale every day. Every single day. But now, she just won’t show up.”
“She?” I pressed. “Who is she?”
“Rahwa.” He whispered the name like a prayer.
I glanced at Zorro. “Wife?”
Zorro pulled out the Book of the Transient. The leather binding creaked as he flipped to Dawit’s page. He frowned.
“Says here he was single. No wife, no kids. Parents died years ago.”
I turned back to Dawit. “So… who is Rahwa?”
His smile was brittle, tinged with wistfulness. “I’d call her my girlfriend, but that doesn’t do her justice. She was my life. My world. My soul.”
Zorro and I exchanged looks—very different ones. His was soft and dreamy; mine, full of secondhand embarrassment.
“And I thought you were cheesy,” I whispered to him.
Zorro silently mouthed, “Natsnet, you are my life. My soul.”
I gagged. Loudly. Then I realized Dawit was watching. I cleared my throat, sat up straighter, and tried to collect myself.
“You must have loved her very much,” I said. I even managed to sound sincere.
Dawit didn’t answer. He just nodded, staring ahead, lost in memories of his Rahwa.
“What’s her last name?” Zorro asked, already plotting.
Dawit narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“We want to bring her to you.”
“You’d do that?”
“Of course. You said all you wanted was one look, right?”
Dawit hesitated. “Honestly… how could I be satisfied with just one?”
“But you just said—” I started.
“That was when I thought I’d never see her again,” Dawit admitted.
Greedy bastard. But at least he’s an honest one.
“Now what?” I asked Zorro.
“We bring Rahwa to him,” Zorro said.
Dawit nodded eagerly. Too eagerly.
“But he just admitted one look won’t be enough,” I protested.
“Nothing will change his mind. The only one who can is Rahwa herself.”
“What if she doesn’t want him to leave?”
Zorro shook his head. “If she truly loves him, she won’t want him to become a poltergeist.”
I wished I could believe that. I really did. But humans rarely respond to reason. We were ugly, ruthless, selfish things. If she loved him, that would be the very thing that would keep her from letting him go.
I asked Dawit for Rahwa’s address, along with details that would prove to her we weren’t just kids messing around. He rattled off basics: favorite color food, music.
“Not enough,” I cut in. “We need something personal. Something no one else would know. Not stuff we can pull from her socials.”
Dawit hesitated. Shrunk into himself a little. “Er…we didn’t know each other well enough for that.”
I groaned. “I thought she was your world. How does that even make sense?”
He looked up sharply—eyes defiant, voice maddeningly certain. “When you meet the one, you just know. You don’t need time. I knew the first time I laid my eyes on her.”
“Amen, brother!” Zorro declared, hand pressed dramatically to his heart.
I rolled my eyes. As if my life wasn’t hard enough with Zorro professing his love at every turn. Now I have to deal with this love-at-first-sight hogwash from a ghost?
“That’s beautiful and all,” I said through gritted teeth. “But none of that helps us prove we talked to you.”
He shifted awkwardly, then flushed. “She has a birthmark.” He tapped his chest. “Right here. Shaped like a heart. She used to tell me it was my heart. That God gave it to her at birth so it would call out to me and lead me to her.”
Nauseating? Without a doubt. But it was something I could work with.
“It’s my favorite part of her,” Dawit continued. “No one else knows about it. Well…nobody except her husband.”
“Her what?” Zorro and I sputtered in unison.
“It’s not like that,” Dawit said quickly. “She was young when she married him. She didn’t know any better.”
I rubbed my temple. This was way above my pay grade. My contract did not include helping a ghost and a human navigate their extramarital affair in the great beyond. But what other choice did I have?
Fortunately, Rahwa lived nearby.
Unfortunately, it was a ten-story walk-up. No elevator.
Zorro accompanied me, even though he could’ve just materialized at the top. Honestly, I wished he had. I would’ve much preferred that to listening to him wax poetic about how Dawit and Rahwa were in love, not in lust.
By the time we reached her floor, my legs were jelly. I knocked once. Twice. Thrice. Then I lost count.
Fifteen minutes later, the door finally creaked open.
A woman peered at me through the crack in the door, eyes dark and unsettling.
Rahwa was… haunting.
Not just beautiful—though she was—but in that hollow, unmoored way people became when grief has rearranged their bones. Her features were elegant, sculpted even, but her eyes were sunken, and her cheekbones jutted out like they’d been carved by sorrow. Her hair spilled messily over her shoulders, unbrushed, undone.
“Rahwa?” I asked.
“Yes?”
“I’m Natsnet,” I said.
A pause. “And?”
“Erm… I don’t know if Dawit ever mentioned me, but I’m his niece.”
Her eyes shimmered at the sound of his name. “No, he didn’t.” She opened the door wider. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I’d drop by. Say hello.”
She studied me—really studied me—for a long moment, then let out a tired sigh. “Would… would you like to come in?”
Relief washed over me. I nodded, and she stepped aside.
Zorro, invisible to her, and I followed. But the moment we crossed the threshold, we froze. So did she. It was as if Rahwa was seeing the room’s condition for the first time.
The living room wasn’t just messy—it was wrecked. Not the chaos of a careless person, but the quiet ruin of someone who’d stopped caring. Shoes scattered like debris. Clothes and blankets slumped in exhausted piles. A shattered mug lay forgotten on the floor, its spill long dried into a dark ring. It looked like a whirlwind tore through the room—and her life.
“I’m sorry for the mess,” she muttered, her cheeks tinged with red. “I haven’t been in my right mind lately.”
“Oh no, I understand.” I hesitated, then added, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Her shoulders stiffened. When she turned to me, tears were sliding down her face.
“You’re the first person to say that,” she whispered. “Most people thought our relationship was… inappropriate. Illicit, I guess. No one sees it as my loss. His family wouldn’t even let me attend the funeral.”
She tried to wipe her face with trembling hands, but the tears kept coming. “I’m sorry,” she said, voice cracking, and hurried out of the room.
I stayed put, awkward and unsure, waiting for her to return.
When she did, she was stiff but composed, her grief folded and tucked away, just enough to perform hospitality.
“Please,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the couch. “Make yourself comfortable.” Then she disappeared again.
Zorro and I sat.
The apartment was full of framed photos. Most were of Rahwa and her husband.
And then there were the children. Three of them.
“Crap in a bag,” Zorro muttered beside me.
“This is sick, Zorro. This can’t be lo—”
I caught myself just in time as Rahwa returned, balancing a plate of food and a glass of water.
“Who were you talking to?” she asked, setting them down on the table.
“No one,” I said quickly. “I mean…I was on my phone.”
Her eyes drifted to my pocketless hoodie and skinny jeans. I squirmed, but she let it go.
We exchanged the usual pleasantries. Then I took a breath.
“Truth is… I came to talk to you about Dawit.”
The moment his name left my mouth, she folded in on herself. But this time, she didn’t run.
“I’m sorry, sorry, sorry,” she gasped between sobs. “Some mornings, I wake up thinking, I can’t wait to see Dawit today. And then I remember, and I just… crash. I can’t even get out of bed. The house is a disaster. I don’t know who’s feeding the kids or if they’re even going to school. I tell myself, Tomorrow, I’ll get up. But when tomorrow comes, I crash all over again.”
She let out a bitter laugh.
“And then tonight, there’s a knock on the door. And it just wouldn’t stop. And that’s what finally got me out of bed. Not my kids. Not my mother. The damn door.” She exhaled shakily. “And now I’m here, spilling my guts to you—a kid who doesn’t even understand.”
Usually, I wouldn’t have known what to say. But something about the way she was unravelling right in front of me pulled at something I didn’t know I had.
“But I do,” I heard myself say. “I lost my parents.”
Her face softened, but she shook her head. “I’m sorry… but that’s not the same.”
Well, that’s what I got for opening up. Still, whatever possessed me to confess pushed me to try again.
“But it is,” I said. “They were my everything. Then suddenly, they were gone. It felt like losing my horizon.”
She stilled, the words landing somewhere deep.
“Losing my horizon,” she echoed. “That’s exactly how it feels. Dawit was my anchor. And now that he’s gone… I’m just drifting.”
“What if he’s not?”
Her face went slack. “Not what?”
“Gone.”
Her breath hitched. “Are you saying he’s still alive?”
“No, no! Of course he’s dead!” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Her face crumpled, and guilt slammed into me like a wave.
“Wow, you’re doing an excellent job,” Zorro muttered, leaning comfortably against the couch.
“I’d like to see you try!” I snapped.
Rahwa’s head jerked up. “Excuse me?”
“No, not you! I was talking to…” I trailed off. “Myself. Heh.”
She narrowed her eyes, suspicious now. “What are you saying, then?”
I hesitated. “Do you believe in life after death? Not heaven or hell…just something beyond this?”
Her expression shifted—confusion, shock, then sudden clarity. “Life after death? Not heaven or hell, so… are you talking about ghosts? Are you saying Dawit is… a ghost?” She said it all in one breath.
“If I say yes, would you believe me?”
She jumped to her feet, pacing the room. “But how would you know? Unless you can see them. Which means, you’ve met him. Are you even his niece?”
“Wow, she’s better at this than you,” Zorro remarked.
“Oh, puh-lease,” I muttered.
Rahwa stopped pacing. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing! I was just talking to…”
“Yourself?” She finished. And then, her eyes widened. “Wait. Is he here? Is that who you’ve been talking to?”
“No, I…”
She scanned the room frantically. “Dawit! Dawit!”
“Rahwa, compose yourself, please. He’s not here.”
She sank back into her chair and dissolved into tears again. I groaned, burying my face in my hands. Zorro was right. I was making a mess of this
“I’ll explain everything. Just, please, stop crying,” I pleaded.
To my surprise, she did. Even more surprising, she listened to everything I said no matter how clumsy my words were. This wasn’t simply desperation. She was grasping at any thread of hope, willing to believe that her lover was a ghost rather than accept that he was gone.
“Do you understand?” I asked. “Unless you help him move on, unless both of you let go, Dawit will become a monster.”
Rahwa nodded, wild-eyed. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll go get my coat.”
She was gone before I could stop her.
Zorro exhaled through his teeth, the truth finally sinking in. “They’re not going to let go, are they?”
There were fewer people on the steps of the Cattedrale when we found Dawit. He was pacing, his back turned to us. He froze, as if sensing her presence. His spine straightened like he was bracing for impact. Then he turned and his eyes found her.
He looked at her like she was the sun and he’s been trapped in shadows for eternity. His fingers twitched, aching to reach out and touch her. But of course, he couldn’t. He never would.
Maybe I was wrong. He does love her—or at least believes he does—though I can’t say I see the appeal right now.
“Is… is he really here?” Rahwa asked, her eyes darting past him, around him… anywhere but at him.
“He is,” I said.
She gasped. “I thought…I thought he would… it’s just empty air.”
I glanced at Zorro, silently begging for direction. But for once, he stayed quiet.
“Is this… some kind of sick joke?” she whispered.
“I’m really here, Rahwa,” Dawit said, his voice thick with unshed tears.
I took a shaky breath. “There’s something we can try. But it’s risky.”
They didn’t hesitate. Their eyes blossomed with hope, and the speed at which they clung to it frightened me. But there was no other way.
Zorro cleared his throat and began, his voice steady but grave. “Listen carefully. Natsnet, you have to let him in. No resistance, no fear. If you fight it, it will backfire, and Dawit’s presence could linger even after he leaves. You must be willing, both of you.”
I closed my eyes, tuning into his voice. I let his calm voice wash over me, sinking into my bones, steadying the trembling in my chest. Slowly, I raised my hands in front of me, palms open. I didn’t dare open my eyes.
I could feel the air shift around me. Dawit was moving closer, his presence pressing gently against the edges of my soul, neither violent nor abrupt but insistent. I braced myself for a fierce resistance, for my body to rebel, for my soul to cry out. But instead, the change came softly, like a sigh escaping after a long-held breath, smooth and almost effortless.
And then…
I sit on the steps of the Cattedrale, waiting for the bus. My car’s in the shop, forcing me to take public transport for the first time in years. I shift restlessly, unused to sitting still, unused to waiting.
The city pulses around me—footsteps tapping against pavement, fragments of conversation threading through the air like distant music. Beneath it all hums a low, insistent buzz, not from the city, but from within. It’s like déjà vu, only sharper. As if something long forgotten is stepping back into my life.
I stand, alert, my gaze sweeping through the crowd. There’s a pull, unmistakable and magnetic, drawing me forward. And then I see her.
She is the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on, though not by any conventional measure. Her face is pale and drawn, dark circles etched beneath tired eyes. Her hair is wild, uncombed, as though she’s had no time—or reason—to care. Loose, worn clothes hang from her slight frame, clinging to the outline of someone stretched thin by life. Exhaustion clings to her like a second skin. Yet… she is radiant. There is beauty in her ruin.
She’s struggling. One arm balances heavy grocery bags while the other wrangles three small children. I see it before it happens. The subtle tremble in her grip, the shift in weight, the way fatigue steals the last bit of strength from her fingers. The bag tilts.
I move without thinking and catch it just before it hits the ground.
She gasps, startled, and starts thanking me absentmindedly. Until our eyes lock.
And in that instant, the world shifts.
It feels like reuniting with a love I lost lifetimes ago, one I never truly let go of. The moment stretches between us, suspended and fragile, a thread drawn tight between two hearts. I don’t break her gaze. I simply hold it.
This is the moment I know.
I have found her.
Every day after that, I return to Cattedrale, sitting in the same spot, waiting. On good days, she meets my eyes. If I’m lucky, she smiles. Yet she keeps herself guarded and distant. Because she knows too. The moment she returns my greeting, everything will change.
Months go by.
Finally, she says hello.
Rahwa’s face flickers, shifting into Zorro’s panicked expression. I gasp for air, caught between two worlds, before the thread pulls me back to her.
We meet at a small, tucked-away café. It is the first time we speak. The first time I hear her voice. Floodgates long sealed open.
She tells me about her husband.
He doesn’t strike her. Not with his fists. His violence is subtler, sharper. Every word he speaks cuts her down, stripping away her dignity layer by layer. He tells her, again and again, she’s a failure —as a wife, as a mother. He rejoices in watching her become a shadow of herself.
And yet, to the outside world, he is flawless. Charming. Generous. Her friends—on the rare occasions he allows her to see them—tell her how lucky she is. No one understands. No one believes her.
But I do.
And in the middle of that café, she begins to fall apart.
Eyes turn. Voices whisper. I reach across the table, take her trembling hand, and gently pull her to her feet. I hail a taxi. We ride in silence to my apartment.
I ask nothing of her. I simply hold her. I let her exist. I tell her she’s strong.
She doesn’t believe me. Not at first. When she does, she whispers “No one’s ever treated me like this”
That is when I tell her. That we are meant to be. That she needs to leave him.
She looks away. “I have children. A family to protect. What would my parents say? The shame…. To leave him? For a younger man? I’d be cast out.”
We can move away, I tell her. Take the children. I offer a hundred ways we can make it work. She counters with a hundred reasons it won’t.
But she agrees to see me again. What more can I ask for?
We carve out moments once a month, twice if luck favors me.
And still, I return to Cattedrale every day. Just for a glimpse of her.
Sometimes, our eyes meet, just for a heartbeat, before she slips away.
Each time, something inside me shatters. But I understand.
We have to be careful. He watches her like a hawk.
Still, even in the quietest moments of doubt, one look from her reminds me why I wait.
For her, I would wait forever.
I promise her that.
I promise myself that.
And then, one day, she tells me it is over.
Her husband found out. She said she was going to stay with him. “The children,” she insists.
I want to kill him. The bruise under her eye fuels a rage I can barely control. Only her trembling plea stops me.
Deep down, I always believed she’d choose me. That love would conquer all. That she would leave him. Not me.
But love doesn’t always win.
The next day, I’m back at Cattedrale. As always, I wait. I made a promise, one I intend to keep. She never comes.
And that’s when I know.
It’s over.
I walk. Nowhere in particular, just…away. Away from the place where I found her. Away from the place where I lost her.
I don’t see the car coming.
A long, piercing beep.
Then, nothing.
The next thing I know, I’m back. Sitting on the steps of Cattedrale. Watching them carry my body away.
And waiting.
Always waiting.
For her to pass by.
“Natsnet.” Zorro’s voice.
His hands cradled me, steady and warm. I tried to open my eyes, to move, but the weight of what I saw drags me down to the ground. A hand— Zorro’s hand? — wiped away tears I didn’t remember shedding.
“Thank God. I would feel just terrible if anything happened to you because of me.” Rahwa’s voice cut through the fog like a lifeline.
Without thinking, I lunged forward and wrapped my arms around her.
“Erm, Natsnet…” Zorro’s voice was gentle and cautious as he pried me away. Confused, I let him guide me upright.
I was Natsnet, I reminded myself.
I was not him. I was alive.
Rahwa was not mine. She was a stranger.
The overwhelming sense of loss loosened its grip but did not let go. I forced myself to root back into the present. A bottle of water was pressed into my hands. I guzzled it down. It helped with the shaking.
The pain? Not so much.
“What happened? Is he gone?” I asked.
Zorro nodded. “He is. You passed out as soon as he left your body.”
Zorro offered to walk Rahwa home.
“She’s been through too much,” he told me.
I agreed though I wasn’t sure if it was me or some lingering part of Dawit that answered. Maybe it didn’t matter. After everything I had just seen, I was just as concerned.
Outside her apartment, she surprised me with a hug. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll never forget you, Natsnet.”
Then she said, suddenly, “I’m leaving him.”
“Your husband?” I asked.
“Since Dawit died, I’ve blamed myself. If I had just run away with him… I thought maybe I was the one who didn’t deserve to live. He… he knew I’d think like that.” Her voice faltered.
“But he told me not to think like that. That I still have so much to live for.”
She paused and took a breath. “My children…I thought they needed both parents. But what they really need is peace. Safety. A mother who isn’t afraid.”
I’d always questioned the nature of love—doubted that it even existed. I used to think it was an illusion: as elaborate as it was fleeting, a clever trick by Mother Nature to keep people reproducing. Something that inevitably decayed into resentment.
To think I would find love here, and in the form of what many would condemn as an affair.
When Rahwa closed the door behind her, something inside me panicked. I didn’t want to lose her again. The thought rooted me to the spot.
Zorro read me. He always did. Without a word, he went after her and returned a few minutes later.
“She’s sleeping,” he said softly. “Peacefully. Probably for the first time since he died.”
That made me feel… good.
We had left her in a better place than we found her.
“What happened while I was… away?” I asked.
“They cleared up a lot of things, talked through her plans. In the end, it was all tears, hugs, and promises to reunite. And then, he let go. He’s a soul now, somewhere in the afterlife.”
We both knew the rules. Ghosts must sever all earthly ties to become souls—including their memories.
Zorro paused, then said, “Honestly? After seeing them together… I don’t think so. They’ll find each other again. Some way, somehow. I just know it. And when they do, their souls will recognize one another.”
“Shall we?” Zorro said, pulling out the Book of the Transient to check our next assignment.
Because yes, Rahwa and Dawit’s story had ended. But mine had just begun.
As we walked toward our next ghost, I stole glances at Zorro, his ridiculous hair, his perfect posture, the way he squinted at the book even though he had perfect vision. And for once, I didn’t find him annoying.
Maybe, just maybe, Zorro was right. That souls like Rahwa and Dawit’s yearned for each other across lifetimes. That they were bound in such a way that they’d meet again. And when they did, they’d recognize each other. Instantly.
Because some souls did recognize each other.
And maybe ours had too.
——
Image: CoPilot remixed