Blackwater Islands It all falls into the sea.

Her voice was pure light; he knew the words as they came from her as gospel, and would have reciprocated some form of conversation if he could.

The poppies dulled the physical sensations of his body and contorted an already fragile psyche in to knots; but as she spoke, pieces were tugged free. Frayed ends tucked neatly together. It was not enough but it was a start.

She spoke of dreams and of nightmares, and the ghost reacted with a pitiful wheeze. She laughed and her voice became beads of sea glass against ice. He reached out to touch the sunlight of her face (or thought he did) and a shaking leg kicked out instead.