Swiftcurrent Creek close your pretty eyes, my butterfly

i spy no rust on that lovely post!

something is coming, no, someone is coming. and yet...she does not stir from her recline, eyes do not flutter from the rollick of light and water performing their eternal, mesmerizing dance. she opts only to listen, delicate ears shivering in the breeze as they tilt and sway to the gentle footfall, so like the patter of scattered rain drops that they are only identifiable by their irregularity. she relaxes at the closed proximity, mind coaxing the phantom to reveal itself to her; for who else would yearn to linger amongst the dead? they still and the dove finds her very breath mimicking such an action, gossamer tears pressing to rain stroked cheeks, please. but it appears that that marks the conclusion of their approach and the girl glares harder at the distorted image looking back, the uncanny shift of her rippling figure only now leading her to realise her own lack of motion. she has never been so still, and there is a tranquility to its embrace. out there, she is light and vibrance and while that energy is euphoric and riveting it is also exhausting, draining but here....she is but a drifting wisp. she should really turn around, face the figure and return to the living. for they could only be but a ghost when she let eyes linger away from where they'd surely discover a solid, breathing creature but she has to, she has to return now. to dwell with the dead is no healthy thing at all. 

and so, seeming to somehow move both like a clockwork automaton kissed with stiffened life and a whimsical sprite of endless grace; the girl stands. she lifts her head and she breathes, if she could recall such an event, she'd liken it to taking ones first breath as they emerge screaming at the earth they've been gifted to. and as the air is returned to the firsky breeze and eyes of touched lustre reopen, she turns to regard whoever had intruded on her moment. and with the eddying mist clinging to his frame draped in muted ash and ivory, he very well could have been but a haunt of the lands were it not for the verdant look piercing the gloom. that and, ghosts were not real and the foolish yearn of a wayward mind would never spin a wish into a fact. there was no world in which the living and passed could linger within reach of each other, and coming here, merely tasting the hints of whom she'd lost, it let her accept this fact with liquid ease. 

he is unfamiliar and upon his pelt lingers only the earth and its air, drawing muted intrigue to the vigilant look pressed upon him. her head cocks, the motion confirmation in itself that she has wholly returned to the land of coruscating life and its need to expel energy in whatever mannerism possible. regarding the wayfarer for a moment longer, she'd finally dare intrude upon the sempiternal silence hanging over this place with a softly lilted "hello"