Wheeling Gull Isle stand by the stairway, you'll see something

The children were rarely far from his mind these days. Every action Mou enacted was for them: eating to keep himself strong enough to hunt, sleeping long enough so that he would have the energy to swap with Maegi and give her a break, patrols that ended up as snack runs or toy gathering. They factored in to everything; eat, sleep, breathe the rejuvenated role of fatherhood that had been rewarded to him.

When he did sleep, it was a restless kind; dreams of people he had not seen in years, doubts manifesting, sometimes flashes of fire or shadow. Voices calling him a murderer with the shape of Niamh's gutted belly eclipsing a forest on fire. He would often force himself awake - then get back to work.

To say that fatherhood was a blessing for Mou was egregious for its error. He came to the den haggard with bags under his eyes, a stain of something crimson on his lip, dragging a piece of discarded birchwood from the beach. When he released his grip it see-sawed and rested against the dirt, touching his hip where it curved.

He ducked sharply to make his way inside. Mou's slouch looked more prominent these days, especially when he loomed over the little family. The ghost's impractical height made him fill the empty space. It was better when he flomped to the ground on his belly, dark limbs extended like reaching branches of their own, where he positioned his chin.