Seaside Moors Stare at empty chairs.

Clouds barred the sky in chromotographic smears. Everything was steel wool. It'd been this way ever since he'd arrived making Rusalka one of the poorest places in the Teekon Wilds to take a souvenir postcard photo. Or the best, if you were into that kind of hauntology.

He nurses the borders like they were his own children. Holden would always make fun of his love for routine and go off on some tangent about chaos theory. Then Miranda would want to look for whichever pseudointellectual came up with 'opposites attract' and kick them into smears on the pavement.

Now, we're back to the borders.

A small gray stranger materialises out of the dense moorland air and his breath fogs, joining the rest of the mist. She's all soft or lost edges here and so is he. 

What's your business here? He calls out with his customary elan and a sober smile, very much Stepford in its geometry.