Swiftcurrent Creek burning a kite; i'm at a funeral, nothing unusual

Familiar footsteps, a nagging voice at his back; perhaps not what he'd desired in this moment, yet it draws scant reaction from the wraith. He steps back from his task, eyeing his nameless acquaintance with only mild curiosity, bordering indifference. No. She was sick, He says simply. She was my mother, actually. He says it the way one might say I had pasta for lunch today, or looks like it might rain; a simple fact, an observation without expectation of an answer. He turns back to his task, expecting curses, expecting sullen silence, expecting the other to turn tail and abandon the situation entirely. That's what children do, after all.