Wheeling Gull Isle racharra sees a ghost

She talks a lot.

Her voice is deceptively light, despite her size. She asks funny questions, like if he’s from the moon. He flares his nostrils in snide retort. As if that’d be possible. She asks his name. He ignores that, too.

The boy maintains a healthy distance between himself and the girl, lurching aside anytime she gets too close. Turning his head, preoccupying himself with sniffing the dirt or a particularly compelling branch to feign indifference. But from the corner of his eye, only when he is convinced she is not watching, Judah steals curious glances. Suddenly he is hyper aware of his body, the irregularity of his stride. He carries himself with what he hopes looks like confidence. His tail levels straight like the length of an arrow behind him, but still he staggers as a just born fawn, cursing silently the mangled limb.

He traces back through the brush towards the island center. There the well-worn pathways run inland, up to a high, rocky prominence which in turn opens out to flowering hillsides. He won't step foot in the greenhill shelter, but this is where he leads the girl. It is the most protected place on the isle. She will be warm and safe here.

Their pace slows as they reach the windswept summit. The boy's head lifts. He stares idly into the denmouth. It's silent, stale, eerily devoid of life. His lungs are suddenly raw and the breath hitches in his throat. He clenches his jaws tightly to suppress the fall of tears. Now that his family is gone, it’s like they were never here at all.

He forces a swallow and steps aside, making room for the girl to enter.