He hovers just next to a falling-down angel, her face worn away by sand and time, wondering. Is it a ghost after all? Are ghosts even real? Do ghosts perch themselves on their own graves and sing mournful-sounding death songs? Is this what he's been looking for? His skin feels rubbed raw, like he's been standing in the wind and sand all day. Every nerve prickles, every hair on his body up on end, but that's not new: Flynn felt this way the moment he stepped into this place, and it's only gotten worse.
He might look like a ghost himself, dressed as he is in a white shirt and pale jeans, hatless and blonde, an unmoving spot of light amid the dust. He should keep looking, he thinks absently, but the song seems to be winding down, coming to a halt, and as it does, Flynn—tired, footsore and spooked and a little sun-addled—blurts out without really thinking about it, ]
memories!!
He hovers just next to a falling-down angel, her face worn away by sand and time, wondering. Is it a ghost after all? Are ghosts even real? Do ghosts perch themselves on their own graves and sing mournful-sounding death songs? Is this what he's been looking for? His skin feels rubbed raw, like he's been standing in the wind and sand all day. Every nerve prickles, every hair on his body up on end, but that's not new: Flynn felt this way the moment he stepped into this place, and it's only gotten worse.
He might look like a ghost himself, dressed as he is in a white shirt and pale jeans, hatless and blonde, an unmoving spot of light amid the dust. He should keep looking, he thinks absently, but the song seems to be winding down, coming to a halt, and as it does, Flynn—tired, footsore and spooked and a little sun-addled—blurts out without really thinking about it, ]
You aren't a ghost, are you?