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unfermentable sugar sugars that remain in the mash and affect body and sweetness

I'D BEEN looking forward to the day's unusual tour that few people signed up for—the Ghost Stories tour—until I met the group of six women who had shown up for the early evening tour.

We hadn't gotten to celebrate. And I remembered coming home from the hospital feeling so alone and finding that big ice cream cake in the fridge, mocking me.

I'd thrown it out.

"Our friend Candy just turned 50!" one the woman crowed.

I forced a smile. "Congratulations. That's... that's wonderful. Really."

"We decided to do something different this year instead of the usual dinner," another friend explained. "Candy's always been obsessed with ghost stories, so when we saw your haunted tours online—"

"We thought this is perfect!" Candy interrupted. "I want to hear about every ghost, every legend."

The women continued to chat with animated energy, exchanging barbs as only good friends could.

I settled in a seat on the bus and tried to shake the sudden gloom.

My mother had lived a sad life filled with rejection and mental illness.

And she'd died a sad death filled with pain.

She didn't have a posse of friends around her to say goodbye.

No one missed her but me.

From the driver's seat, Jett cleared his throat. "Maybe now would be a good time to tell a story."

I blinked. "Right. Of course." I launched into one of the stories I'd learned for the tour, but it wasn't my finest delivery. But I stretched it out until we made the first stop at a distillery with a haunted legacy.

I pointed to an aged brick structure. "This building dates back to 1847," I began, my voice sounding hollow in my own ears. "The original owner was a sea captain named—" I paused, my rehearsed words suddenly feeling foreign on my tongue. The silence stretched on.

"A sea captain?" Sarah prompted eagerly.

I gave myself a mental shake. "Yes, he... he sailed merchant vessels to the Caribbean. His wife died young, and he became obsessed with contacting her spirit through séances held in the upper floors."

The women murmured appreciatively, but my delivery felt mechanical, lifeless. I kept seeing my mother's face, wan and tired in those final hospital days. Forty-nine years, eleven months, thirty days. So close to this milestone that Candy wore like a celebration crown. It just didn't seem fair.

"What happened to the captain?" Candy asked, but my mind had drifted again.

"The captain eventually—" My voice cracked slightly. I cleared my throat, but the words wouldn't come.

"Eventually went mad from grief," Jett's voice filled the silence smoothly.

He'd appeared beside the group as if summoned, his presence both surprising and oddly comforting.

"Local records show he died in 1863, found in the attic room where he'd conducted his séances.

Some say you can still hear his voice calling her name on foggy nights. "

The women shivered deliciously, completely absorbed in the story as dusk descended.

I glanced at Jett, grateful for his intervention but unable to form the words to acknowledge it. He caught my eye briefly, a question in his expression that I couldn't bring myself to answer.

"The next stop is just around the corner," he continued seamlessly. "The old apothecary where they say the bottles still rearrange themselves..."

As we walked, I remained quiet, letting the rhythm of footsteps on pavement fill the space where words should have been, acutely aware of Jett walking just behind the group, his presence a constant gentle pressure against my consciousness.

That's the thing about grief. Just when you think you've gotten past it, it reappears… like a ghost.