Silver Moraine show me the way

faust watches him from the rise, gaze cold and knowing. the ghost’s voice carries in the quiet, and the man’s posture says enough—wandering, restless, unclaimed. he has seen his kind before.
he descends slow, steady, like a storm rolling in. nothing hurried, nothing wasted. snow crunches beneath his weight. when he speaks, it's low and rough, the voice of ice splitting at the seams.
faust. kaan, here. he says simply. his name is enough here. no need for the rest. those who need to know, already do.
a glance drifts over the pale figure, noting the smoothness of his coat. unscarred, unbroken. it makes his brow tick, just slightly.
you plan to stay? faust asks, words curt and edged with mild indifference. not challenge. not yet. but there are few ghosts who linger long without cause. fewer still who leave without making trouble.
his breath curls like smoke in the cold. he does not smile.