The room was quiet, save for the steady drip of melted candle wax pooling on the stone floor. Jack stood at the center, the chalk-drawn circle glowing faintly at his feet, its symbols carved in painstaking detail. The air was thick with the sharp tang of blood and magic, a combination that always made his skin crawl.


    Jonathan lingered at the edge of the circle, his ghostly form half-lit by the flickering candles. He looked as he always did—sharp, self-assured, a flicker of amusement in his gaze—but now his edges flickered faintly, a constant reminder of his spectral state.


    “So, this is it?” Jonathan asked, his voice light, though something darker curled beneath the words. “I get turned into a glowing ball of soul stuff and shuffled off to the Underworld?”


    Jack didn’t answer immediately. He knelt, adjusting the angle of a sigil near the circle’s edge with the tip of his dagger. “You’ll be yourself,” he said eventually, his tone clipped. “A Soul. Whole. Free from phantomization, free from her binding. You’ll still go to the Underworld, but no one will control you again. Ever.”


    Jonathan snorted softly. “Freedom in what some claim is a hell. Sounds delightful.”


    “It’s better than staying here,” Jack muttered, his voice sharper than he intended. He straightened, turning to face Jonathan fully. “Look, you deserve better than being part of Jackelin’s damned collection. That’s the best I can give you.”


    Jonathan tilted his head, studying him for a moment. “You almost sound like you care.”


    Jack’s jaw tightened, his grip on the ceremonial dagger firm. “Don’t push your luck.”


    Jonathan chuckled, a soft, hollow sound. “Fair enough.”


    Jack stepped into the circle, lifting the dagger as he began to chant. The words were low and rhythmic, spoken in a language older than any church sermon. The sigils on the ground flared to life, their glow spilling into the room like liquid light. Jonathan winced as the energy surged around him, the edges of his form trembling.


    “You could’ve warned me it would feel like this,” Jonathan muttered, his voice strained.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Jack didn’t stop chanting, his focus unbroken. The ritual demanded precision; even a misplaced syllable could unravel the delicate threads of magic binding the circle together. The air grew heavier with each word, the room trembling with an unseen force.


    Jonathan’s ghostly form began to shift, brightening as the ritual continued. His translucent edges sharpened, solidifying into a figure that seemed to glow from within. The weight of the room pressed harder, the magic thick and electric, until a burst of light filled the space, forcing Jack to shield his eyes.


    When the light receded, Jonathan stood before him, no longer a faint, flickering phantom. His form was solid yet ethereal, glowing faintly with an inner light that seemed to pulse like a heartbeat. His eyes met Jack’s, their sharpness undimmed, though his expression had softened.


    “I feel… different,” Jonathan said, flexing his hands experimentally. “Lighter.”


    Jack nodded, his breathing steadying as he lowered the dagger. “You’re a Soul now. No one can touch you, not Jackelin, not me, not anyone.”


    Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “Except for the Underworld. That’s still on the itinerary, right?”


    “It is,” Jack said quietly. “But you’ll get there on your own terms. Not as some twisted tool for the living.”


    Jonathan’s faint smirk returned. “Well, at least I’m exclusive.”


    Jack stepped forward, reaching out instinctively—but as his fingers neared Jonathan’s arm, they passed through like mist. The realization struck them both, and Jonathan stiffened, his expression unreadable.


    “So that’s the catch,” Jonathan murmured. “We can’t touch anymore.”


    Jack drew back, his hand curling into a fist at his side. “It’s the nature of the ritual. Souls exist outside of this world. You’re… not here the same way anymore.”


    Jonathan’s laugh was soft, almost bitter. “Figures. Just when I was starting to think we might’ve had something.”


    Jack looked away, his voice low. “You’re free now. That’s what matters.”


    The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken words neither of them dared voice. Finally, Jonathan broke it, his tone lighter than it had any right to be. “Well, Jack, I suppose this is where I say thank you.”


    Jack’s lips quirked into a faint smirk. “Don’t bother. I didn’t do it for you.”


    “Of course not,” Jonathan said, his luminous form flickering faintly. “You’re far too selfless for that.”


    They stood there for a moment, the weight of the ritual still lingering between them. Jonathan’s glow seemed softer now, less harsh, as if his presence was already beginning to fade from the mortal plane.


    “Goodbye, Jack,” Jonathan said finally, his voice steady but tinged with something Jack couldn’t quite place. “And… maybe try letting someone in before it’s too late.”


    Jack’s smirk faltered, but he forced it to stay in place. “Don’t preach to me, Jonathan.”


    Jonathan laughed softly. “Someone’s got to.”


    And then, he was gone—not in a burst of light, but with a gradual fading, his presence dissolving into the air. The sigils on the ground dimmed, their glow fading to nothing as the room fell silent.


    Jack stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where Jonathan had been. Finally, he turned, slipping the dagger back into his coat as he stepped into the fog-drenched night.


    Jonathan was free, but as Jack walked through the cold streets, he couldn’t shake the strange ache in his chest—a reminder that some separations were permanent, even for someone like him.