Duskfire Glacier lluvia

the word was almost foreign to him, but it landed with a strange weight. a recognition of sorts, though not one he would claim aloud.
haunted, he repeated, voice low, rough. it wasn’t something he said often. it wasn’t something he needed to say. but she had asked, and her eyes had peeled back something he didn’t often show.
perhaps, he admitted, finally, but the admission was a fracture, brief and evasive. his breath hitched, not in sorrow, but in something darker, something older.
he took a slow step back, as if creating distance would lessen the weight of the question. ghosts don’t follow you unless you’ve invited them, he muttered, more to himself than her. and even then, you don’t get to choose which ones.
his eyes flicked to her, hardened again, a jagged edge to his words.
but i’m not here to talk about ghosts, silvertongue. i’m here to live with them.