Blackfeather Woods I felt your shadow on the way home.

The violent gale of words blew to his ears, and the ghost lingered with a paw raised as if he hadn't heard it; in truth he was confused, unsure of what was happening. He had not seen her—but there she was, a typhoon of emotions spiraling out of control and screaming, crying, calling for him. The boy was stumbling back to where she waited, his long strides making short work of the dark glen's uneven topography. Even with the newest layers of dried leaf-litter, he knew and trusted in the forest.

She was vomiting, or dry-heaving, he couldn't be sure, and looking like a frightful mess. But she was also so beautiful to him for her familiarity, her pale face causing his heart to lurch in to his throat, the warmth emanating from her body where it was poised drew him closer; yet he didn't touch her, didn't try to breach the limit of her personal universe. Much as he wanted to—desperately, needed to—Mou did not know if he would be welcome.

By the way she spoke, choking on words and on bile, he thought of himself as a pestilence incarnate. That by being too close or by having any contact he would ruin her, wholly, and could not dare to get closer. But he chuffed in his silent way, imploring with his eye wide, coiling upon himself in a tangle of apology. He couldn't say anything—but oh, how he wished his voice had not been taken in that moment!