New Orleans, Louisiana. 1:14 AM. French Quarter.
Miri hated being alone.
Her piece of the book was in her bag, humming. Like a phone on vibrate.
The address: 27 Royal Street.
A jazz bar. Closed. But music was coming from inside.
A piano. Playing to nobody.
Miri pushed the door. It creaked.
Inside: empty tables. Chairs stacked.
And in the middle, one table. One chair.
And a boy. Maybe 13. Sitting. Singing.
His voice was beautiful. And so, so sad.
"...and if you’re not here, I’ll sing to the chair anyway..."
He stopped when he saw Miri.
Eyes wide. "You’re not supposed to be here."
Miri sat at a different table. Not his. "I’m Miri. Are you... are you okay?"
The boy shrugged. "I’m Theo. My mom died 6 months ago. We used to come here. She loved jazz."
He pointed at the empty chair across from him. "So I sing to her."
The book in Miri’s bag flipped open by itself.
_Theo. Age 13. New Orleans.
He sings to empty chairs.
Remember him. Don’t feed him. Don’t sit._
From the back room: click
A plate set down.
Theo looked down. "It started after she died. I’d sing and the chair would feel warm. Like she was there.
Then other chairs got warm too. Then... people started disappearing from photos. If I sang their name."
Miri’s hands shook. "You’re not killing them, Theo. The Hunger is."
Theo stood. Walked to the piano. "It tells me if I keep singing, she’ll come back. Just one more song."
Miri stood too. Too fast. Knocked her chair over.
"I know it hurts," she said, voice soft. "I’m scared too. All the time. But if you keep singing to empty chairs, more people will sit in them. Forever."
Theo started playing. A slow, broken chord.
The Hunger whispered through the speakers:
"Sing. She’s listening. One more song and she sits."
Miri walked to the piano. Didn’t touch him.
"My name is Miri," she said. "And I’m scared with you.
But we can remember her without calling her back."
She pulled out her piece of the book. Started writing:
_Theo. Age 13. New Orleans.
He sings because he misses.
We’ll sing with him. So he’s not alone._
She sang. Off-key. Terrible.
But she sang.
Theo stared. Then laughed. Through tears.
"That’s awful," he said.
"I know," Miri smiled, crying. "Wanna do it together?"
They sang. Badly. Loudly.
For his mom. For all the empty chairs.
The piano stopped by itself.
The warm chair went cold.
The plate in the back room shattered.
Theo leaned on the piano. "She’s not here. But... I feel her. Because you sang with me."
From the book:
New Orleans: Hunger contained. Author stable.
Miri hugged her book. "One down."
Her phone buzzed. Group chat:
Umi: Salem clear.
Alex: On my way to Nashville. This ghost better have good taste.
Fritz: Chicago is weird. Already weird. I love it.
Miri typed back: New Orleans clear. Don’t forget to call tonight.
Outside, the street musicians started playing again.
For the living.