It was hard to say what exactly happened after death, an ever-growing sea of sometimes impossible beliefs suggesting everything from life again somewhere new, in great spanning fields of lush green beyond golden gates, and life again as something new, a soul housed in another body not exactly human with no memory of what had been, to the existence of the supernatural depending on the circumstances and the all too realistic and existential terror-fueling notion that, once in the ground, all was food for the worms. There were very few people who came back from that light at the end of the tunnel, ushered in by saints and robed deities meant to guide them through such gates that led to heavily absolution of ultimate damnation, and those who did weren’t always apt to be believed among the skeptics and nonbelievers and those who subscribed to scientific ideas about how the brain worked to soften the impact of otherwise fleeting mortality as everything shut down.

But then there were those who skirted the divide – the ghosts that haunted old manors and become known as “demonic” presences within creaking walls and still had some handle on how to traverse the mortal plane, at times interacting, most times watching and observing those within, and forever stuck in habits and motions they found hard to let go – and then there were those who, like Henry, seemed to have some God awful distinction of reincarnation. It wasn’t normal and it wasn’t standard; he didn’t wake up as someone else and he didn’t wake up as something else, a manipulation of otherworldly beings and cosmic magic that, in the hands of powerful or the hands of a small child, had ultimately allowed him to return to his place, this spot this gravesite that wasn’t his own and plot that, perhaps in another life that hadn’t started on the sun-drenched coast of California, could have been his future.

It was a risky venture – his return to Seoul during a holiday celebration that was meant to honor family and passed ancestors – but he had his reasons, his struggles with a growing sense of isolation and regrets found in a gut-seeded sense of loneliness that was often a struggle to fill be it or be it not because of his own reservations, and he had his strategies to not be a surprise presence when he very well shouldn’t have been. As far as the Lee family knew – his siblings and his father in particular though he was sure word had spread to his grandparents in a very lively Seoul – Henry Lee was dead.

He was a ghost.

And he didn’t want to be a ghost.

There was only one problem: It had been months, close to a year, since the twists of fate had called for a funeral in his name, a body burnt into ash by a father who, if only judging by his demeanor and posturing now as he swept away dust and plant debris away from the etched stone plaques, had taken the loss with difficulty; since being stuck in the deep cold of purgatory called for an apartment of belongings removed, stored or otherwise sold with a few material objects of sentimental value divided among his family members; since being knit together by the still uncertain whims of a child in a body far different from the one he wore now – so he could be “closer to Hell” had been the running joke – sealed the disconnect; but here he was, apart from the rest who had gathered, still dressed in something nice and new and proper, within arm’s reach, alive and well –

– or as well as one in his position could be, going through the motions of thought and consideration and whatever dilemmas came with strategizing an approach he still couldn’t be sure he had the willpower for. The push was there – it always was even when the confidence wasn’t – but just as it happened many times in many different situations with many different people, some more familiar than others, the notion of cold feet didn’t escape him; but then why else did he come all this way on a week when he knew San Francisco would be going through some changes; when his friends, once more, found themselves sporting new identities and a wealth of super powers they may not have been able to control or knew nothing about; and such abilities of his own were better spent put to use than enjoying – or not – the regimen of the holiday season?

He had a few answers himself – because he could go back at the drop of a hat provided he wasn’t three sheets to the wind, because San Francisco could handle things themselves and couldn’t always rely on the known bodies to handle things for them, because family should have been more important than anything else – but none of them really encapsulated the full scope of consideration given to a moment – this moment – Henry had been standing on the precipice of, just waiting to push himself over the edge. It could go great. It could also go terribly. It could be foolish or it could be the best decision he had ever made, but as the last reading done echoed in his head, nothing would happen without a first step and he was the only one who could take it.

It had been his sister he ultimately decided on breaking the news to first, someone he knew would be just as excited as she would be perhaps frightened and would more readily break the news to their father with ease than a brother who, sure to find warranted issue with the timeline of Henry’s reappearance, would have taken affront. In due time, it would come out – all that had happened and all that had been hidden without the prying eyes of super hero-friendly media on him at all times – but this was just a first step.

He waited for the rest of his family to depart, heading back to their vehicles with his brother exhibiting care to keep an eye on both his aging father and grandparents, before he stepped out of what concealment there was – namely a veil of invisibility maintained through services as to not tarnish what was important ceremony to his relatives who perhaps couldn’t go every year – sometimes it just wasn’t financially possible – but when it was, it wasn’t without due diligence. For a moment – if only a moment – he could have been anyone else, someone else tall and slender in a nice suit who was enjoying his own Chuseok celebration among family who shared proximity in such a place, but it was a notion that lasted no longer than a double take in his direction.

And he still couldn’t bring himself to look at her, not sure what he would see on her face. Would it be surprise? Surely. Would it be relief? He hoped. Would it be fear? He wouldn’t have doubted it. Would she be angry? There was a chance, and he found himself struggling with anything more than peripheral glances in her direction until she had grabbed his sleeve and shook it – maybe to make sure he was real, maybe to get his attention, or maybe a little bit of both.

“형제? Henry?” The twinge in her voice didn’t go unnoticed even as she turned back to look in the direction of departed family, the search for validation that she wasn’t going insane and seeing things, that he was as real as the fabric she still held and only took to gripping harder, an unspoken question that needed no vocalization. Words – those were always hard, but it wasn’t unlike Henry to over-think every moment in his life, to deliberate every pro and con before making a decision well beyond the window of opportunity, and though some sense of ease was intended, even he wasn’t sure a simple two – maybe four – words would suffice.

“It’s me. I’m alive.”