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Richard Rodgers had a gift. At least that's what his mother had told him one night, when he was five years old and cowering under his Batman bedsheets because he'd seen a ghastly white man sitting in their kitchen, drinking from one of his mother's coveted whiskey glasses. That, itself, wouldn't have been so unusual if it weren't for the fact that Ricky had been able to see his mother's distorted form on the other side, as if the man was some kind of fogged up window.

Rick had dropped the glass he was on his way to refill with water, let out a shrill scream, and sprinted right back to his bedroom, where he buried himself under the covers until his mother came to check on him.

"Richard?" Martha Rodgers had called out, knocking delicately at his bedroom door. "Darling, are you alright?" She entered to find her young son staring at her, wide-eyed, fear all over his face.

"Gh-gh-ghost!" Ricky whimpered. "That was a ghost!"

Martha sighed in relief and gave her boy a soft smile. "Yes," she said. "It was. That was Mr. Edwards. He used to live here."

"Really?" Ricky asked, coming out of his shell a little. "Did…did he die here, too?"

Martha sighed. "I'm afraid so," she said. "Poor Mr. Edwards had a heart attack. His wife moved away to New Jersey and he's just waiting on her to cross with him."

"Cross where?" Ricky asked, pushing the blanket off of his head. His hair stood straight up.

"To the other side," Martha explained. "Where we'll all go. Someday."

"Why isn't Mr. Edwards there already?"

"Because I need my wife to go with me."

Ricky startled as the ghastly Mr. Edwards appeared next to his bed. His mother's whiskey glass was no longer in his fist.

"But why?" Ricky asked, no longer afraid of the ghost.

Mr. Edwards gave Ricky a soft, amused grin. "One day, young man," he said as he began to fade. "One day you'll understand." Then he was gone, leaving Ricky with far more questions than answers.

After that night, he began to see ghosts all over. As he walked to school with his mother, there were spirits hanging out at various small shops or sitting on park benches, next to very alive and well New York citizens. Most of the ghosts Ricky saw were elderly, benevolent souls, watching over their descendants and loved ones.

But some were Ricky's age. And some were even younger than him.

Ricky hated those kinds of spirits. The children who had lost their lives far too young and didn't have anybody to guide them over to the other side. They walked around parks aimlessly, stood in front of hospitals, wailing and afraid. Sometimes, Ricky would try to stop his mother and reach out to them, but Martha just pulled him along.

"There's nothing you can do for them, dear," she would say, consolingly, holding his hand a bit tighter than necessary.

Often, Ricky wondered why he and Martha were the only ones that could see ghosts. What made them so special? Were they really gifted or was this some kind of curse? Because, sometimes, when he lay awake at night, listening to the late Mrs. Johnston from two doors down, wailing about a life wasted, he wondered how he could be so unlucky.

Then, some days, he felt as if he was chosen specifically to fill some kind of purpose.

One of those days came when he was in his early thirties, nearly three decades after discovering his "gift", after a name change, two marriages, two divorces, and the birth of his first and only daughter. Alexis could see ghosts as well, but the nine-year-old saw them more as friends to play with than the nuisances Rick used to know them as. He would often walk out of his office, after writing for a few hours, and see her sitting at the kitchen table, sharing milk and cookies with phantoms as they told her stories of their past lives.

One such day, Rick saw a woman with his daughter. She didn't look particularly elderly or sick, like many of the souls that came to visit. Instead, she was relatively young (maybe forty?) and had a smile that told him she'd definitely been a mother or some kid of caretaker when she was alive. Her voice was soft and sweet as she spoke to Alexis. Her movements were fluid as she poured more milk. Clearly, she'd been gone a while, as new spirits often didn't have such control over physical, real-world objects. It was a learned and adapted skill that grew over time.

"Hello?" Castle greeted, stepping into the room. Both Alexis and the woman turned to him and he was startled by the enchanting green of her eyes. "Can I help you?" Usually, when a ghost visited him, they were there to ask him to pass on a message. He'd become just as famous in the spirit world as he was in the world of the living.

"Yes," the woman said, standing up. She hovered a bit before her feet planted firmly on the ground. Obviously she still was not used to that particular ability. "My name is Johanna Beckett," she said. "I've come to ask a favor."

Castle furrowed his brow. "What kind of favor?" he asked. "Do you need me to say goodbye to a loved one for you? Or tell them where to find your will? Just tell me their name and I'll make the call."

"Well, you're half right," Johanna sighed. "There is somebody I'd like you to contact for me, but it's not to say goodbye. Not exactly."

"What do you need?" Castle asked, calmly.

"I need you to help her solve my murder."

"Help whom?"

"My daughter," Johanna informed him; "Katherine Beckett."