My name was Rick Evets at least it was before I died. I spent most of my life studying the human soul. Don't confuse me with a scientist because I was a philosophy and theory major. I went to college about six years for the degree in a subject no one knew much about as fact. Something many once would have believed a waste, but with advancements in science, ghosts were proven real. Most of my career was helping paranormal investigators with research. By investigators, I mean the idiots that are always on television torturing some poor soul. I watched once as the show's hosts amused themselves by mentioning a lost lovers name to ghost with dementia. They laughed at her as she went through bouts of recognition and confusion. Leave the poor murder victims and betrayed lovers alone! There's enough pain in life as is; we don't need even more after death.

                Even in my community, I was not popular. In my opinion, it was because I was right when it came to matters of the soul. People can be hard headed and believe what they want regardless of the facts. Most Atheists think ghosts are just fragments of consciousness sometimes left after death, but some are entirely aware and intelligent. Some people believe that the spirits that were lacking awareness, the ones that are like broken records, have had pieces of their souls chipped away over time by the evil actions or thoughts they had in life. That would be great but unfortunately false. Many good people spirits were equally incomplete.

                I had a theory... one that turned out to be true. I had met and worked with the most sentient ghosts known. Several were nameless monks, and one was a girl that died during the plague. Her name was Lucille, and she had been a lesser noble that committed her life to charity. She was always thinking of other people, having died to treat the sick unable to continue saving others. There are always others to save, so she could never pass on after becoming a ghost. It was her unfinished business, but she enjoyed every moment of it. She would always recount the stories of people she helped. The people that made her happy and put a smile on her face. Stories of her life that made her whole. One day I realized the circular stories did indeed make her whole. What is a memory but a short story that begins and ends with you? I don't mean being narcissistic but writing a memory onto the soul through repetition. If a soul had any thinking capacity of its own, then most people weren't using it because they didn't know how myself included. The lesser monks made sense too, they always reflected inwards and trained their soul. A true monk was measured by being able to meditate thoughtlessly, but a failure would likely recount past events. Even though they failed to achieve enlightenment, they succeeded at preserving their souls. Whatever enlightenment or "Nirvana" was... it could be a soul breaking some boundary into godhood. I didn't achieve Nirvana nor did I try or plan to. Putting the ego aside would help put circular mental loops in one's mind. The concept was writing your story onto your soul by meditating on the past.

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                I had no way to test or prove my theory initially. Those who had always had it out for my work mocked me when I published my thesis. I was made a laughingstock among those around me in my line of work. Few people wanted to believe the truth, even less would, and those that were against me that did lie for personal profit. I watched some in my field push nonsense they knew was false because it made them more money. It felt to me like they were just a bunch of "snake oil salesmen." I began to meditate using the method I devised from my research, replaying and focusing my memories into circular segments to retain them and train my soul to think for itself. Soon I noticed I began never to forget things; it was like having photographic memory only better. Later, I Began to be able to think about multiple subjects simultaneously as quickly as one. It was like having a second brain in my head. I had planned to prove my current abilities and add them to my thesis as proof, but then I died.

  I was sitting in a coffee shop having a cup of my favorite coffee. It was around 4 pm, and I was the only one there other than the barista. I was never really able to stick to a good sleep schedule. Having looked at the clouds outside wondering if it would rain, I heard a screeching sound from above and then a crash. Next thing I knew I was looking at my own decapitated body. A wing from a plane had crashed through the building and killed me. I had always thought I too would remain as a ghost, but my unfinished business must not have been as important to me as I had imagined. My soul was whisked away moments after I died.