Wheeling Gull Isle What gets out kool-aid stains?

The ghost of his beloved was speaking. He could hear her well enough yet he didn't seem to register any of it; maybe he was seeing things, maybe she was really here, but either way — Titmouse had been spending so many days on his own yearning for her to return, and now he was stuck. He couldn't decide if he wanted to fall in to this fantasy, get swept away by it, or let it pass him by.

She spoke of ravens; he thought of his sister, of the black forest —
she spoke of home; he thought of the seaside —
I want you to come home with me, now.

Was this really happening? The boy found himself frowning at the figment before him, scowling at the idea of leaving this behind — she'd left him here, claimed it was safe. He'd moved on. Thought he had, anyways. Moorhen was here and Seelie and --- well, he didn't have anyone else to root him. They'd survived without him before. Please?

Maybe this ghost was here to take him away for good, he thought.

Poetic justice — sending his beloved to take his spirit away like this. His body had been shattered by the sea when he'd first arrived here; that same sea had been laying in wait for Titmouse ever since. Maybe this was it. His frown slipped away as he considered her offer — and then, within the icy stillness of the frigid season he all but sighed, Okay.