Sun Mote Copse mention our ghosts, our knotted spines

waves excitedly

he appeared from the earth itself, a ghostly visage -- or, no, that wasn't true, but it was how he felt, coming here, truly alone. but ghosts were made of mist and pale, and he was not, brittle-charcoal that he was instead, a ghoul. he wanted to feel mean. he did not want to think about his past, and so he didn't.

delight was not alone. this was a welcome change of pace, although the boy did not know how to reckon with it, it having been some time since he sought the company of another. the world was too bright for him to hide. pale eyes keep careful watch on the silvery male, hesitant, not quite hidden and not quite known yet. he would have stayed at a stand-still longer had the pollen not made the decision for him --

he sneezed.

damn. the singing-sunlight felt almost guilty having destroyed the peace of the scene, but, now there was no reason for him to stay in his (ineffectively) cloaked state. "it's dusty here," the petite boy said, not responding to the man's earlier sentence so much as explaining the reason for his undignified entrance, his tone at odds with his frame: sharp, a little sullen, blaming the world for his problems.