It’s easy to get lost in the rhythm of soup. Ladles scratching clay edges, heat against cheeks, the trickling. It’s even easier when your customers are ghosts.

The first time one talked to me, I had to pretend I couldn’t hear. It was startling more than anything, less a voice and more an instinct. Warmth, hunger, tongue, thanks. I pushed a bowl of soup towards it, shooed it off,  and tried to fall back in time with my ladle.

But it comes back, the guttural feeling of insight. I look up again to see that centuries have passed. The soul stands before me, head tilted and star-shaped.

“You’re causing a scene,” I say without thinking.

Sap and char linger in the air as it takes the bowl and floats over the bridge. I never watch the souls cross, I can’t stand the possibility of them falling into the chasm. But Star-Head doesn’t. They walk straight into the light, cradled and radiant. A bell chimes as the doorway flickers. I’m brought back by a soul tapping the table with its spoon.

“Do you like mushrooms?” I ask. Its cloud eyes look straight through me.

I don’t realize I’m anxious about Star-Head until I feel them, then relief. Instead of warmth, they show me a man in a small kitchen and a bowl of juuk in front of them. The man is dark, stout, and beautiful. He comes over and rests his forehead on Star-Head’s shoulder. I find myself pressing into the man along with Star-Head, coarse hair tickling both our necks. The breeze through the open window is almost too much. I hate being aware of how much time we don’t have.

Star-Head stares at me. I can’t bring myself to stare back. I wait for the sound of the bell before I breathe again. The heat behind my eyes doesn’t subside.

Time begins to form itself around Star-Head. When I feel that familiar hunger, something’s different. Blood drops from my ears to stomach as a strong iron smell shoots to the back of my throat. I force myself to fully witness them. The arms of their head are longer than I remember, sharp-tipped and cold the way dead things are. They stare at me with tiger eyes and I understand. I reach out for them, my hand landing on an arm that feels like a jet of hot steam. Star-Head purrs from their chest. I see blood and teeth, men with guns the size of forearms, the coil and release. Anger. The fear bubbling behind it. The souls behind us buzz, as does the air. Broth in the cauldron echoes against itself from the tremors. Everything stills as I step back. With fuzzy hands, I fix a bowl. Star-Head’s head drops as they take the bowl. It almost looks like they’re bowing. I look into the space between the star spikes. It reminds me of the skin between collarbones, thin and pulsing.

The world above moves along, as does Star-Head. They begin to come and go at a rate I recognize as distinctly human. I see so many things from so many lifetimes: Stained glass, recital halls, collapsing bodies, Black Madonnas, orange groves, Sutras, ash, a distinct pink bloom in the corner of an eye, sailboats, the Milkyway, the screams, a red egg, matchboxes, post cards from Algeria, IV drips, time zones, temples, crowded and chanting streets, and art show sign, I Wait For No One. It’s beautiful and terrifying.

Their edges have softened. The spikes that halo them have smoothed to a single point, a warm amber glow. They’re almost too bright to look at. I blink spots out of my eyes as they stand in front of me.

“You look so out of place,” I say.

They hold their hands out like they’re asking for something. I feel my heart drop, but fill a bowl anyway. There was a weight in the broth I’ve never experienced before. The ladle rattles in my hand, spilling drops all over the floor.

“I’m sorry-”

Their hands take the bowl and place it somewhere else. They reach out again. Through misty eyes, I find them, and as I do, I feel something materialize between our palms. I carefully turn it over in my hand. It’s a small wooden charm. Dark feathers and jade eyes stare at me over a sleek, curved beak.

“He’ll never be the storyteller you are,” I say. My throat feels wrung out.

A voice surrounds us, embracing and bell-like, “let him try.”

I throw myself into Star-Head. My hands and chest and cheeks burn from the radiance, but I can’t bring myself to care. It’s the first time I’ve held anyone, and I want it to be them. They press their forehead into my shoulder and purr. I make a sound that sends cracks through the ground. The ghosts in line cover their ears.

“What do I do with all of these memories?” I ask through a haze of heat.

“You hold them,” the voice says.

“They hurt.”

“Not forever.”

When we finally part, the wooden bird sits alive and preening on their shoulder. Star-Head makes a clicking noise, and the bird butts their cheek gently before coming to my shoulder and doing the same. His head is cool in comparison. This makes fresh tears well in my eyes.

“It was mercy to know you.” They say.

I have always considered myself to be something outside of life. Outside the malleable, the breathing. The changing and the dead. But as golden flames rupture Star-Head’s chest, I feel it. That moment I dread in every one of their stories. The flatline, and the brilliant glow after.