Hey, Sorry. Can You Hear Me?
Intro
I have sadly passed away at this very moment. I haven't noticed yet, but my soul has left my body, becoming a ghostly being. As I realise my current situation, I try to get back to 'myself' -the corpse. I can't.
Part 1: Looking Around
I glance around my spectral office when —bam!— my eyes lock onto an unlikely candidate: a big, cheerful tree perched in a rather snug white pot. Could this leafy fellow be my next temporary body?
I mean, after all, it’s seen me slog away at my tasks with moderate enthusiasm and plenty of good intentions. Surely, that counts for something in the cosmic ledger, right? Besides, I’m hardly a meanie pie, so I figure it might be inclined to return the favor. My only slight worry is that the tree seems a bit too cozy in its little pot —perhaps it might be feeling a touch claustrophobic.
As I lean in for a closer look, I can’t help but wonder: will it greet me with a welcoming, leafy smile? I admit, I haven’t exactly been its personal waterboy, but hey, that’s hardly my current gig. Judging by its vibrant green hue, it’s clearly doing just fine on its own.
So here I am, crossing my ghostly fingers and hoping this affable arboreal friend will let me hitch a ride in its bark. Fingers —or should I say, branches—crossed!
Part 2: Greeting the Future Host
Despite my spectral state, I can still interact with the world around me. I drift closer to the tree and, with a hint of sheepishness, introduce myself.
"Hey sorry, can you hear me? You know me, right? I'm that young doctor who used to sit at that desk, idly twiddling my thumb while secretly hoping the patients would stop coming. Mind if I get a little closer and get to know you?"
I reach out, and the leaves feel surprisingly stiff —almost like thin leather strips. I study its vibrant foliage, robustly rooted stem, and the sturdy bark that hints at a long, storied past. There are some yellowing in its older leaves, yet it is lush in general.
Part 3: Remembering the Future Host
The tree was already here when I arrived, and I can’t help but wonder how many years it has witnessed. I find myself reflecting on the journey it must have taken.
Clearly, it isn't native to these parts. Perhaps it began life as a humble packaged seed, venturing far from home only to discover that this land is colder and drier than what its kind once knew. When it grew tall and beautiful, it must have been potted, may even have been displayed or gifted —perhaps adorned with congratulatory ribbons— to celebrate the opening of this clinic. Carefully placed by the meticulous CEO, it now stands in a neurologist's office, silently observing the endless parade of weary souls.
Part 4: Connecting With the Future Host
The leaves twirl around my ghostly hand as I muse over the tree’s past. Its leaves seem to hum a gentle greeting, asking, "How was your day before ghosthood? What's it like being a ghost —any different from being human, aside from needing me? How are you feeling now?"
I'm pleasantly taken aback by such warm questions, and I find myself vibrating on the same friendly frequency.
"Well," I reply, "it was a pretty ordinary morning. I got up at 7:30 AM, took a shower, popped my pills, and dressed up —then even squeezed in a little prayer for the day ahead. I knew that the absence of a traffic light outside the clinic was always a recipe for chaos; the road is like a real-life game of Crossy Road, with speeding cars zipping past without a care. Today, I guess, I hit Gameover.
It all feels a bit surreal —maybe it’s just the first day of this ghostly gig. I do worry about how my family will manage without me, but otherwise, life’s carried on as usual.
I used to think having too much time on my hands makes me feel rich —and now, I truly feel infinitely rich! Still, my only concern is this constant sensation of floating and drifting away. I need to feel a little more rooted, or else I might just fade off into space and get lost."
Part 5: Possessing the Future Host
The tree nods gently, its branches swaying in a quiet welcome. "So, are you going to take over my body?" it asks.
"If you don't mind, yes, please," I reply warmly. "We'll watch the patients from our little corner, sometimes peeking at the new doctor at work —observing how quickly he switches screens when someone knocks at the door. I’ll share with you stories of weirdest patients from all around the world. And together, we'll grow into a mighty tree. Let's stretch our roots out of this pot, so one day the CEO will have no choice but to replant us somewhere new, when we've grown too big for here."
The tree tilts its head thoughtfully. "If you want to be rooted somewhere else, why choose me? Why not take another tree along the road?"
"Because I want to see my patients —watch how they’re cared for, see them bring their children, and witness those little ones grow up,"
"That's fair," the tree concedes with a gentle rustle. "Alright then, come in."
"Thank you," I whisper, feeling the warmth of a new beginning.
The End: The New Me
At first, I am surprised how cramped my roots feel.
"My goodness, have you always stayed this way?"
"Yeah, pretty much," the tree’s voice responds dryly. "Not much space for luxury here."
Days pass, and I slowly adjust. The tree and I become roommates in this undersized pot, silently judging the new doctor’s medication choices and taking bets on how long each patient will wait before he calls, checking the stocks. We whisper through our leaves, narrating clinic drama like it’s a soap opera.
“Oh look, it’s Mr. Kim again. You think he’s here for his migraines or just to argue about his prescription for fun?”
“I give it five minutes before he starts telling the doc how to do his job.”
As time goes on, we get bolder. We start rustling ominously when someone fakes their symptoms, shaking our leaves dramatically whenever the office Wi-Fi crashes. Sometimes, when the new doctor is alone, we shift just slightly, just enough for him to do a double take.
The best part? No one can prove anything. We’re just a tree. Two souls in a tree. Watching. Judging. Thriving.
Review
Yesterday, I bought the RPGs for Accessible Gaming bundle and played Hey, Sorry. Can You Hear Me? by Magikya Studio during lunch. I think I took a much more lighthearted approach than the game probably intended, but still —I ended up befriending the tree in the corner of the office. I would have never thought to touch its leaves if not for this game. And now, I can’t help but wonder… who’s watering this friend?