Ankyra Sound o green world, don't desert me now

There was a moment in which the ashen figure believed that he was dreaming – he had washed ashore somewhere and this was the heaven that he had conjured. The hope that she would willingly allow him to touch her in any means that resembled intimacy was astounding, but he did not stand long to mull these thoughts through his mind. As she allowed her flank to touch against his own, the ghost peered at her with warm honey eyes and moved to take her.

Kierkegaard had followed her for as long as he had known her, and he would not regret acting as her careful shadow. There was not much more that he could have accomplished at his age, and so he had nothing more that he wished to venture out and seek. He followed her instruction and then found himself in a tired heap of ragged fur and aching bones.