Blackfeather Woods a distant ship smoke on the horizon

The ghost found his wife drifting. He knew this area the way one knows the topography of a dream; here she was plucking seeds from where they'd nested, forgotten, letting them melt upon her tongue.

Titmouse waited until she was softened by the poppies before approaching. He probed the hollow and flicked his tongue, gathering a few dry husks to himself, and crushed them with his molars. They were small things—desiccated—and it took some time before the saliva in his mouth had rehydrated them.

When he turned back Maegi had drifted further away. He watched her phase in and out of existence for a few seconds. Flickering, a cloud of smoke trying so hard to become more, dissipating—and then he was drawing closer as a numbness swept through his chest.

As he came close to her she became real again. Titmouse breathed her in, felt the lightness in his chest abate somewhat in doing so, and pressed his nose to her neck.