To Everything Ever Lost...

The morning felt heavier than most. Not the kind of weight that pins you to the bed, but the kind that lingers even after you’ve risen, trailing behind like a shadow you can’t shake. Sleep had been elusive lately, though I couldn’t decide if it was the memories or the monotony that kept my eyes fixed on the ceiling, night after night. Either way, the day started later than it should have, with a burnt cup of hazelnut coffee and the faint echo of a dream I couldn’t quite piece together.

I moved through my morning like clockwork: music low, foundation light, routine steady. A rhythm I’d carefully crafted, a semblance of order in a life that often felt frayed at the edges. But when I reached for my winter coat, something stalled me.

There it hung, unassuming in its brown and black simplicity. Three years of compliments from strangers and coworkers. Three years of warmth against biting winds. Three years of not noticing its striking familiarity—until last week. That’s when I found the photo.

A candid shot of a person I once held dear, standing beneath a snowy streetlamp, wearing this very coat. Or at least its twin.

I ran my fingers over the fabric, trying to remember if it had caught my eye for that reason. Did it remind me of them when I bought it, or had I chosen it by chance? And if it was a coincidence, what did it mean that I hadn’t noticed until now? How is the recent year uprooting so much of my life?

With a sigh, I pulled it on. Ghosts don’t wait for invitations.

The day unfolded as expected—silent exchanges with clients, emails answered, boxes ticked. Transactional, like everything these days. By the time the sky darkened, I couldn’t bear the thought of the empty hours waiting for me at home. I needed something stronger than coffee, something to burn through the fog.

Instead of turning toward home, I headed to the local dive bar I’ve frequented for what feels like lifetimes. The one with dim lighting and scuffed wooden tables. The one where nobody asks questions, and the bartender pours generously. As I stepped inside, the room’s warmth wrapped around me, though it did little to thaw the cold knot in my chest.

“Double Jack on the rocks, splash of water,” I said, my voice steady even as my hand trembled slightly when I reached for the glass.

The first sip was bitter and sharp—exactly what I needed. I leaned back, feeling the edges of the day begin to blur. Somewhere in that haze, I realized I wasn’t trying to drown the ghost. I was inviting it to sit with me.

He was everywhere, my beloved ghost. In the spaces between my thoughts, in the shadows I swore I saw on every wall. It wasn’t him I missed, I told myself. Not him, not us. This ache was different—less of a wound, more of a hollow that echoed with moments I hadn’t let myself mourn. I reassured myself, as I often did, that walking away had been the right thing. After all, hadn’t I left in the name of self-respect? So why did this hurt more now than it did back then—what's the difference?

The bartender interrupted my reverie, recounting a story about a regular—someone I’d vaguely recognized—who had recently passed. A young woman. I’d just missed the wake, apparently. Her story spilled out in fragmented pieces: how she lost her mind, spiraling into something none of them could reach. They described how she gave everything she had to others until there was nothing left for herself. A love spiral, someone called it.

The tale was sad and oddly familiar. How had I missed it? I’d been so wrapped up in my routines, in rebuilding myself brick by fragile brick, that I hadn’t noticed. I should have been there. As a fellow patron. As someone who might understand.

The group fell silent for a moment, their eyes turning toward me as I listened, perhaps a little too intently. There was something in their gazes—a flicker of recognition, as though they saw pieces of that girl’s story in the lines of my face.

I drained the rest of my drink and ordered another. What a compelling story, this girl dying along with the portrayal of a man that she thought was honorable, yet his potential was a mere projection of what she would have done if given his circumstances. She wanted him to survive and be happy, and in doing so, she gave him a lifetime in exchange for what he thought would be happiness. However, as a bystander, I just know in my gut that the grass wasn't greener on the other side—she died in vain.

I finished my second drink and casually asked if and where she was laid to rest, I wanted to pay my respects. Something hung in the air that I couldn't understand; I just couldn't let go of my urge to internalize this story I'd heard. The bartender responded to my inquisition by handing me a flyer, which had outlived its expiration. I suddenly felt reluctant to go, fearing what discoveries may be looming at the cemetery. The sun had only just set, and I didn't want to spend too much time trying to be comfortable in the dark.

The cemetery was shockingly close to my home; I took my time walking through, as it's usually pretty easy to see a fresh burial site, I knew the area, and I felt at ease. As I walked through, I felt extremely nostalgic for reasons unbeknownst to me. Maybe it was the way the ice on the ground, reluctant to melt, crunched underneath my shoe, or perhaps the way the cold air tightened the skin on my face. Crude reminders of a life I had intently left behind and replaced with an intrusive schedule.

Where was the burial site? It's impossible for the funeral home to complete a burial this quickly. I started reading the headstones, looking for ones that didn't seem weathered - maybe, just maybe, that part was expedited. I felt a chill crawl up my back as if I was being observed by someone from afar, but at every turn, I saw nothing. Once my suspicion subsided, I stumbled upon the very headstone I sought.

I froze. My stomach dropped like a stone into a cold, dark abyss. The words on the headstone blurred, my mind refusing to accept what I saw.

“To everything ever lost, thank you for setting me free.”

And below that—my name.

The chill I had felt earlier now surged into a cold sweat. My breath hitched as my legs felt unsteady. I stepped closer, hands trembling, tracing the letters carved into the stone. It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t my imagination.

But how?

The air around me seemed heavier, pressing down on my chest. My thoughts raced. A prank? A coincidence? No. It felt deliberate, intimate—as if someone, or something, knew me better than I knew myself.

My hands clenched into fists as I stood there, staring. This wasn’t just a message. It was a warning.

I don’t remember leaving the cemetery, but I remember the cold. It clung to me, seeping into my chest and settling in the hollow place where fear and realization now intertwined. By the time I reached home, the air inside felt just as heavy as the air outside.

The flyer from the bartender sat on my kitchen counter, its edges curling slightly. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. Instead, I stared at it, as though the answers might rise from the ink like smoke.

That night, I slept fitfully, dreams tangled with faces I didn’t recognize and voices whispering fragments of truths I wasn’t ready to hear. When I woke, the world was gray, muted, and the weight in my chest hadn’t lifted.

Days passed, each one a blur of obligations and unanswered questions. But the headstone—my headstone—never left my mind. It haunted me more than any memory, more than any ghost. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed answers.

I returned to the bar, half-expecting the bartender to laugh at my story. Instead, he looked at me with a solemn understanding.

“You found it, didn’t you?” he said, not as a question, but as a fact.

I nodded, my throat dry. “What is it? Why was my name on it?”

He hesitated, then leaned closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret meant for me alone. “Some people say that headstone shows up for those who need it. Like a mirror, but for your soul. It doesn’t mean you’re dying—it means something inside you already has. Or will, if you’re not careful.”

I responded begrudgingly, "I can't believe this... How am I seeing something that should not exist?"

Before walking away from me to serve another, he stated, "You don't understand. Seeing is believing. This is your own projection."

His words settled over me like a second skin, suffocating and liberating all at once.

That night, I revisited the cemetery. This time, I wasn’t afraid. As I stood before the headstone again, the chill of the air felt less invasive and more clarifying, like ice pressing against fevered skin.

“To everything ever lost, thank you for setting me free.”

The words didn’t feel like a warning this time. They felt like a challenge.

I realized then that the warning wasn’t about death—it was about stagnation. I had been living in the shadows of my own life, letting my past dictate my present, letting fear and regret control me. The headstone was a reminder that if I didn’t change, if I didn’t let go of what was holding me back, the best parts of me would remain buried.

In the days and weeks that followed, I made adjustments—not grand, sweeping gestures, but small, deliberate steps. I started working out consistently, something I had avoided for too long. I rekindled my passion for sewing, an old hobby I’d abandoned when life became too chaotic. I reached out to friends I’d lost touch with, reclaiming the connections that once made me feel whole. And I walked away from those whose values did not align with mine.

And I threw away the coat. Not because it reminded me of my past, but because it didn’t fit anymore—physically or metaphorically.

The weight I’d been carrying didn’t vanish overnight, but it grew lighter with every step I took.

Months later, I found myself back at the cemetery, walking the familiar path to the headstone while spring accompanied me by softening every step. The Winter concluded, and seeing the cemetery filled with natural beauty felt reminiscent of the change that lay in hindsight.

My breath caught as I saw the inscription had changed:

“To everything ever found, thank you for bringing me home.”

Tears blurred my vision, but they weren’t tears of sorrow. They were tears of release, of relief, of hope.

As I walked away, the cold air felt different. It didn’t tighten my skin or make my breath hitch. Instead, it filled my lungs, crisp and invigorating.

For the first time in years, I felt alive.