Daniel woke to the smell of burning toast.
He bolted upright, his heart pounding. The apartment was hazy with smoke, the fire alarm blessedly silent (Lila had always disabled it—"It's too sensitive!").
He followed the scent to the kitchen, where Luke was cursing at the toaster.
"Shit, shit—" The kid yanked the plug from the wall, sending the charred remains of a bagel flying onto the counter.
Daniel exhaled. "You're supposed to turn the dial down if you don't want it nuclear."
Luke startled, nearly knocking over a glass of orange juice. "I did."
"No, you—" Daniel reached for the toaster, then froze.
It was Lila's toaster. The stupid, finicky one she'd bought at a garage sale because it was "retro" (read: a fire hazard). He hadn't used it since she died. Hadn't even looked at it.
Luke followed his gaze. "I… thought it was yours."
Daniel swallowed. "It was hers."
A beat. Then Luke grabbed the juice and took a swig. "Tastes like shit anyway."
Daniel barked a laugh. "You're drinking it straight from the carton, you heathen."
Luke grinned—a real, fleeting thing—and for a moment, the kitchen didn't feel so empty.
Daniel picked up the burnt bagel. "You want me to make another one?"
Luke hesitated. "Yeah. Okay."
And just like that, the ghost in the kitchen became a memory instead of a shadow.