It cost too much
The price paid for transgressions and trespasses isn't always a literal one, but the cost can leave one just as destitute. A poverty of the heart, a homeless soul, a homesick sense for the walls, hallways, and windows: the home made in kindness, compassion, and grace of others.
It's imagery that's been exhausted, ironically enough, to death that one, one dearly departed, to bribe or pay the ferryman Charon to cross the river Styx. Styx separates the world of the living from that of the dead. It'd be a kind of justice to have to pay all the people I happen to find myself dead to. A tax for carrying the memory of me, the burden and nature of the damage I've done. A cost to haunt.