Chimera Fields pastel ghost

Pukei, he affirms, warming up to her company. Oh, I assumed, 'cause of the flowers and all... His voice trails off as it always does when he is prompted to explain himself, but thankfully she asks him a question he can cling onto.

What, for this? he asks, screwing one eye -- the scarred eye -- shut. It took a comical amount of effort to open and close the eyelid, thick and uncooperative with scar tissue. Half of his vision was like footage retrieved from degraded film, at best some jittery, Brownian approximation of the world.

My sister used to put chewed up mint leaves on it, when the itchiness got bad. As the words leave his mouth, he is wondering why he is divulging this to a virtual stranger. Her bright face and mussed hair puts him at ease and makes him feel shockingly normal. He doesn't remember the last time he had a conversation like this, something rambling but not unpleasant. But I don't see mint here...

...not that I—I know anything. I'd end up killing myself if I tried to do anything with herbs.

Beneath her watchful eyes, he can't help but square his shoulders.