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The rain outside had been falling since morning — thin, silvery sheets cascading down the glass panes of Kaveh’s tower study. The world beyond was a blur of fog and wet stone. Inside, only the candlelight flickered, casting pools of amber across half-open tomes and scattered chalk runes. Kaveh had tried, truly tried, to banish the ghost at least seven times that week. Each attempt had been done with careful precision: perfect circles of salt, carefully inked glyphs, and the muttered incantations of someone who had once graduated top of his class in soulwork. And every single time, the same thing happened — the circle would pulse once, dim, and then—
“Are you done?”
The voice. That same calm, dry, faintly amused voice that had taken up residence in his home — and, increasingly, in his thoughts. Kaveh groaned, throwing his hands up. “I’m starting to think you enjoy watching me fail.”
“You’re very dramatic when you’re frustrated. It’s mildly entertaining.”
He didn’t have to turn to know that Alhaitham was standing — or rather, hovering — just beside his bookshelf. The ghost rarely stood in the light. He preferred the edges of it, like the faint shimmer of heat above a candle flame. His figure was always half-there, half-fog — a white silhouette tinged with soft green, like moonlight caught in glass. Kaveh exhaled, exasperated but strangely fond. “You weren’t even summoned, you know. You’re not bound by contract, not by blood, not even by name. So why are you still here?”
“Because you called,” Alhaitham replied simply.
The necromancer blinked. “I what?”
“Not with words. Not with magic.” A faint pause. “With loneliness.”
The words slipped through the candlelight like silk. And for a moment, Kaveh forgot how to breathe. He wanted to argue — really, he did. He wanted to roll his eyes and tell the ghost to stop being poetic. But then he caught sight of him: Alhaitham standing just by the window, translucent fingers brushing along the frosted glass. The rain passed through his hand like mist. His eyes — bright, steady, almost human — reflected the candlelight in a way that made them seem heartbreakingly real.
And Kaveh thought, for one stupid, aching second: he looks lonely, too.
He shook the thought away. “You’re—impossible. I don’t even know who you were when you were alive.”
"You never asked.”
“That’s because you never leave! It’s hard to ask personal questions when someone’s haunting your house uninvited!”
“Yet you still talk to me,” Alhaitham murmured, almost kindly. “You could ignore me. But you never do.”
Kaveh pressed a hand to his chest, pretending to straighten his collar just to avoid the ghost’s gaze. “That’s—because it’s polite,” he muttered, which earned a soft huff of amusement from behind him.
Days passed, and the haunting continued — but it changed. The first time Kaveh noticed it was while he was sketching at his desk, late into the night. His candle had burned low, and the ink was beginning to blur. He leaned his cheek on one hand, eyelids drooping, when a faint warmth brushed against his shoulder — like someone had draped a sunbeam over him. Startled, he looked up. Alhaitham stood beside him, almost fully visible in the soft light, his expression unreadable.
“You’ll ruin your eyesight if you keep working in the dark.”
Kaveh blinked. “Are you—worried about me?”
“I’m invested in not watching you collapse from exhaustion. It would be noisy.”
Kaveh laughed quietly, and that sound seemed to ripple through the air — the kind of sound that made even spirits pause. “You’re terrible at admitting kindness.”
“You talk too much.”
“And yet you never leave.” Their eyes met — and for a heartbeat, the space between them felt less like the gap between life and death, and more like the thin line between two people standing too close for comfort.
By the third week, Kaveh had stopped drawing banishment circles altogether. He’d grown used to the soft hum of presence in his home — the way Alhaitham’s footsteps made no sound, but his gaze always followed the rhythm of Kaveh’s hands as he worked. Sometimes, the ghost would appear sitting cross-legged atop the counter, reading an invisible book while Kaveh cooked. “You can’t eat,” Kaveh pointed out one morning, amused.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate technique.”
“You’re watching me make porridge, Alhaitham.”
“Then consider me impressed by your dedication to mediocrity.” Kaveh nearly threw a spoon at him. But when he turned to do so, he caught that fleeting flicker of a smile — small, quiet, almost human — and the irritation melted into laughter.
One evening, the rain returned — heavy, endless, soft as sighs. Kaveh sat by the window with a blanket over his shoulders, a cup of tea steaming in his hands. Outside, the world was all mist and motion. Inside, everything glowed warm and gold. He didn’t realize Alhaitham was near until the temperature shifted — not cold, but oddly steady, like the ghost carried warmth instead of taking it. “You didn’t work tonight,” Alhaitham said quietly.
Kaveh nodded. “Didn’t feel like it. Just wanted to listen to the rain.”
“Hm.” A soft hum. “You humans find comfort in simple things.”
“Not all humans,” Kaveh said, glancing up with a smile. “Just the ones who are tired of being alone.”
There was a long silence. When Alhaitham finally spoke, his voice was softer than ever. “Then I’m glad I stayed.” Kaveh froze — then laughed, but it was quiet and trembling at the edges. “You’re—unbelievable,” he whispered. “You make it sound like you’re doing me a favor.”
“Maybe I am.” The ghost moved closer, close enough that his outline shimmered against Kaveh’s sleeve. His fingers brushed the edge of the blanket — they passed through it, but Kaveh swore he felt a faint, lingering heat anyway. “You don’t have to banish me anymore,” Alhaitham said. “I’ll stay until you stop needing me.” Kaveh smiled faintly, lowering his gaze. “Then I suppose you’re not leaving anytime soon.”
“No,” Alhaitham murmured, and if he could have smiled, Kaveh thought he would have. “Not until you tell me to.”
The rain outside fell a little softer after that — or maybe it was just the sound of Kaveh’s heart quieting. For the first time in years, the necromancer didn’t feel alone in his home. He just felt warm.