gutterghosts

[gutterghosts]

The sun had long ago dipped behind the horizon and the moon illuminated the sleepy Yanxian village. Moon beams streaked across the dimly lit room while little bodies fought sleep.

“I’m not sleepy!” Chirped the boy with raven hair and large chestnut eyes. “I got too many thoughts!”

“Yeah! Too many thoughts!” His sister parroted as the pair flailed around the futon.

“But it is time for bed, if you stay up too long you will anger Tsukuyomi.” Their grandmother warned from near the hearth.

“Nuh uh! That’s not true!” The boy protested.

His grandmother slowly turned on her stool to face the two. They stared at her with large, defiant eyes. “It is true. Tsukuyomi is a most vengeful Kami.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Yeah! We don’t believe it!”

“Then I will tell you a story. A tale that happened long ago, before you or I were born.”

“That must have been forever ago then, grandma,” the boy mumbled.

“Tch,” the grandmother gently chided, resting her hands on her knees as she stared out the window toward the night sky and the lonely moon. “There was once a Kami long ago. A kind and gentle Kami, she was beloved by the people of the small villages she was said to look after. She was the cool breeze on a hot summer day or the warmth of a hearth on a cold winter night. A Kami of small comforts. She was the koban found in the street or the narrowly missed tumble. A Kami of little luck.”

The children stared at their grandmother, eyes wide with interest as she continued her story. “The villages revered her. She was beloved by the people, not for grand gestures, but for the everyday blessings, no matter how small, that she bestowed upon the people. The Kami loved the people. It was said at times she would sit beside the river in the form of an old woman, singing a song that soothed the hearts of any that heard it. The villages that worshipped her were none of import. Quiet and sleepy and poor. But they were happy.”

“One night, Tsukuyomi heard the sound of revelry and followed it to the villages where a festival was being held to honor the kind-hearted Kami for the everyday miracles she bestowed upon them. Though they were poor, they offered beautiful and thoughtful gifts for the Kami. Flowers sewn into crowns, dolls carved from wood, portions of their harvest. All these left at the small, humble shrine of their beloved Kami. The sight of this enraged Tsukuyomi. Their smiling faces, their devotion. All for this little goddess. Unimportant. Weak. When he, the great moon, was given nothing. Tsukuyomi sought out the Kami as she perched in a tree, watching the festival below with great love and admiration for the people.”

“He demanded to know what she had done to deserve such adoration above him. The little Kami smiled and shrugged. ‘I love them,’ she said as she watched. Tsukuyomi, who had never paid mind to such poor, dusty villages, was filled with jealousy. Noble lords and brave warriors feared and worshipped him. How dare these peasants not give him the praise he deserved. He was Tsukuyomi! The Great Moon! He commanded the lesser Kami raze the village. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I will not.’ Her defiance infuriated Tsukuyomi further. ‘Then I will do it myself!’ He snarled with such fury that the tides of the One River changed. Great waves swelled and battered the shore. ‘It is not them that should face your ire, Brother Moon,’ the little Kami protested. ‘It is I, who loved them so much. It is I that deserves your wrath.’ Tsukuyomi, consumed by his jealousy and rage, turned his anger on the little Kami. He struck her down, scattering her across the land like stars in the night sky. As he stared at the pieces of the fallen Kami, he realized what he had done. The spirits of the land grieved. The wind howled, the trees groaned, the earth trembled. Even the people, those peasants Tsukuyomi had long ignored, seemed to still in their celebrations. They did not know what, but they knew something was wrong.”

“Tsukuyomi felt something strange. Something he had never felt before: remorse. Fearing the other great Kami would learn of what he had done, he retreated to the sky, leaving the villages to mourn their revered guardian. Never again did he speak the name of the Kami and plucked it from the minds of all those in the villages, so they too would not remember. All but one. A boy. Every night the boy prayed to the Kami, begging for her to return. The villages suffered for many years. Crops failed. Bandits ran rampant. Lords warred and tore through the countryside. But the boy, who grew into a man, never ceased praying and as his family grew, they too prayed. They became the keepers of her name. It was a thankless job, but the boy never forgot the Kami that had been so beloved by the people in happier times. While others forgot her, the keepers of the name never did. They were certain one day their lady would return to them.”

The boy sleepily rubbed his eyes, rolling onto his side and draped an arm over his sister. “What… was her name?” He asked, his words falling lazily from his lips as he snuggled into his pillow. His grandmother smiled, turning back to the hearth to shuffle dying embers. “You will know soon enough, little one. As is our duty.”

Outside the window, the little yokai listened to the story, as she often did when wandering through the village late at night. She bounded onto the rooftops and turned her gaze toward the moon in thought and tried to make sense of the sudden sorrow that weighed on her heart.

[gutterghosts]

“I’m confused.” The voice was a distant echo that rang against Ochmaa’s horns like a far away church bell. Confusion was normal, death had a way of disorienting people.

“Why are you confused?”

The apparition turned toward her, crossing hot, sun-scorched earth that he could no longer feel. He looked at the woman. Something about her made him squirm, made his skin crawl like an unseen danger in the dark. “This isn’t how I pictured things.” The woman’s eyes opened, though she didn’t turn toward him. Her eyes reminded him of the moon covered in clouds.

“How did you picture things?”

As uneasy as the woman made him, he was drawn to her, moving ever closer to her. Feet dragging with each step, he stopped at her side. “Well, nicer. You know. Clouds and sunshine and…” He trailed off when Ochmaa began laughing. “W-what’s so funny?”

A finger swiped away a tear as it rolled down her cheek. “Mmm, such a basic understanding of life and death. It amuses me. Do you not remember what you were doing when your light was snuffed out?” The man had been so caught up in the lackluster details of his afterlife, he had not stopped to consider it.

“I was drinking a home after a long day— did my bitch wife do this to me? That cunt— I fuckin’ knew—“ The words were sealed behind his lips, stitched together by an invisible thread. His eyes fell to the moving fingers of the woman, lined with twilight scales with sharp, pointed nails. He staggered back, away from her, and clawed at his mouth.

“Your wife did not kill you. I did,” she explained in a low, monotonous tone. “Your wife was a saint. How many times she came to me. Broken bones. Bruises. I mended wounds seen and unseen, but there were always more.” The man scratched at his mouth as she stood. “All you knew was how to take. From your wife. From your children. You hurt them because they were weaker than you, because you could.” With each step toward him, the woman grew. When she reached him, he was but a doll to be snatched up. He struggled futilely in her grasp, groans of protest smothered behind sealed lips.

“You were not a husband or a father, you were a tyrant. A monster,” she snarled, her lips pulling into a wide, lupine smile. “But the thing about monsters, Arn, is there is always someone willing to slay them.” The man’s eyes grew wide as he was lifted toward her gaping mouth and pushed inside, the infinite darkness of her cavernous maw the last thing he saw before darkness bled into nothing.

[gutterghosts]

TW: violence, death

The bath water was already cold, but Haruka couldn’t be bothered to move in her somnus stupor. Smoke billowed from her mouth, drifting into the air above her like a grim halo. Her eyes fixated on the ceiling as the cigarette was brought to her lips for another pull. Dreamy eyed and swimming in a morose reverie, she cut a look toward the desk in the corner where an unopened letter from a mother had been gathering dust. Two moons and she hadn’t been able to bring herself to open it.

When will it be enough?

When I’m dead. The thought had rattled against the walls of her skull many times before. In Dalmasca when shrapnel and stone freckled her chest in grime and blood, in Bozja when a mortar tore through her parachute sending her plummeting to the earth below, in the Ghimlyt Dark when a bullet lodged in her chest, in Garlemald when…

“What the fuck are they?” The boy nearly howled, fear warbled his words, as the scythe bearing Garleans advanced. “We’re here to help them!” But not everyone wanted to be saved. That was a truth Haruka knew well. “Probably cuz they’re a buncha brainwashed assholes.” Her breath rolled out in a dense fog and the bitter cold burrowed into her bones. “They ain’t assholes, they’re just scared! They need our help!” The boy’s optimism had been annoying at best. A hero complex. “Ain’t really lookin’ like they want our help, kid.” Not everyone can be saved. Haruka watched as the boy dodged the wide sweeps of the scythe, the whistle of the blade as it cut through the air a grim accompaniment to the symphony of battle.

Haruka’s gaze cut toward a shadow in her periphery, it crossed into her view as it barreled toward the boy, the gleam of a curved blade like shooting star in the distance. The barrel of her gun swung in front of her, just ahead of the sprinting reaper and with a a ingle shot, a bang. She watched the man’s head jerk to the side with the impact and blood spill across pristine snow, a whisper. His body crumpled, his scythe skittering across snow and ice.

The boy rolled his head, a pained cry spilling out at the sight of the body behind him. “Stop!” More of a plea than a command as his adversary continued her assault. The boy tumbled back, over the body and into the snow as she advanced toward him. Another round in the chamber, but as she pulled the trigger all she heard was a garbled click. “Fuck!” The boy watched as the scythe arched high into the air, he closed his eyes and murmured a prayer. But the pain of metal cutting through flesh never came. He opened his eyes to see Haruka and his attacker on the ground.

He watched as her fists slammed into the woman’s face, splattering blood across the frozen ground beneath them. The sound of cracking bones and violent squelches echoing out with each collision of her fist and the reaper’s face. “Haruka! Stop!” The woman was motionless beneath her, but she didn’t stop. Not until he ripped her off of the felled Garlean. “What the fuck, Haruka!” He snarled, more bite in his words than he had had their entire time in the frozen wasteland. “She ain’t fightin’ anymore! We gotta be better than—“ The words clipped short as sharp, spindly claws plunged through his chest.

Behind him, the woman was laughing, the writhing shadow of her voidsent companion retreating from where it loomed over the boy. He staggered forward touching a hand to his mangled torso as the woman sat up. Haruka passed him as he dropped to his knees, advancing on the reaper like a predator on their prey. The butt of her palm met the woman’s delicate jaw. Snap. A sudden, swift wretch of her head and she fell back, her eyes wide and mouth pulled into a permanent smile.

She twisted on a heel, moving to the side of the kneeling boy. Up close, she realized how young he was; too young to be here. Tears painted rivers through the dirt that caked his face. “Why did she do that?” He coughed up, blood smearing around his mouth with a swipe of his hand. “Why—“ Haruka shushed him, her hands pressing to his chest in a futile gesture to stop the bleeding. A few moments. It would only take a few moments more, she could tell by his glassy eyes and the slow spreading puddle of crimson beneath him.

“I’m going to die,” he whispered as the morbid reality of the situation sunk in.

“Yes, you are.” Haruka had never been one to coddle.

“You’ll stay with me?”

“I will.”

The boy mustered a smile. He slouched against her, his head hanging as his strength rapidly declined. Her bloodied hand moved to his hair, gently stroking it away from his face. “Mama is gonna be so mad at me,” he muttered in a sleepy tone, the distant echo of a voice that came at the end, when life had left and the words were more like staggered breaths. “Will you tell her I did good?”

“I’ll tell her the truth.” The boy sunk against her, a death rattle pouring out into the night. “I’ll tell her you were the best of us.”

[gutterghosts]

Prompt #6 - Onerous

It had been two suns since papa had died. Ochmaa had sat in the silence of the yurt as the tribe paid their respects, but in her mourning, she was alone. At night when others retreated to their yurts, to the warmth of their families, she was alone. There was no warmth without papa. It didn’t even feel like a home anymore. Five suns and she had finally dried her tears or, perhaps, she had run out of them.

She had spent the morning wrapping his body in red and black linen, before draping his body in the dusty brown of the Urumet. Careful knots were woven to secure his body to the sled made from gnarled branches, her touch was gentle mindful not to pinch or push too hard. She wondered if his spirit was watching, if he knew how careful she had been with the body that had served him well for fifty-three summers.

The sun had not yet risen, merely peeking over the horizon when Ochmaa set out, dragging the sled and her father across the sandy dunes toward the Tail Mountains. Had she asked, others would have helped, her father was a beloved böö, but it was her burden to bear. He had given her so much. Summers of love, a family, a life she had never imagined when the Moks handler had dumped her in the desert. Abandoned in the night at ten summers, she had never felt so alone. Away from the only family she had known, however cruel they had been, it was better than being alone.

She remembered sitting in his yurt, his voice was deep, it commanded attention, but his tone had been gentle, soothing. She remembered the softness of his questions, the warmth which he exuded when dealing with a frightened child. He was the first person that had treated her like a blessing, not a curse. The first person not to treat her differently because she was blind. She had learned what love was, nurturing and unyielding, because of him.

By the time she had reached the base of the mountains her shoulders were blistered and bleeding, thick lengths of rope digging into blue flesh. Her legs ached, her hands trembled. But still, she did what papa had taught her, she endured. She ascended to the cliff that she and her father had sat at late at night, not high enough for the air to be thin, but high enough to feel the entirety of the Steppe beneath them. It was there that she laid out his body, peeling away the dirtied linens, stained from their travels. Their last journey together. She washed his feet and combed his hair, fingers weaving careful plaits that fell over his shoulders. She kissed his forehead and bid him a final farewell in whispered prayer to the Dusk Mother. She sat with him for several long bells, until the sun had set and stars freckled the dusk sky.

“When we die, Nhaama plucks our souls from our body and sews them into her twilight gown. We are returned to her, her last gift to us is that we can look down on those we love and that they can be reminded of us each time they look into the night sky,” her father had always told her. So, Ochmaa waited. Waited for the stars, so that her father could see that she had taken good care of him. That she had brought him to their special place. That the onerous journey had been worth it. It was there that she left him to before returned to the earth, worn away by the weather or devoured by beasts, and returned to the lonely desert.

“Goodbye, Papa.”

Goodbye, Ochmaa.

[gutterghosts]

Prompt # 5 - Cutting corners

It was a lazy afternoon. The end of summer swelter had settled over Thanalan like a heavy blanket. Ochmaa stood in the kitchen, gently kneading dough before cutting it into neat sections. Slowly, she rolled out each into a small, flat surface before plopping a dollop of ground, spiced dzo into the center and carefully pinching it closed. Bataar sat by the hearth reading, stopping only to cast a look over his shoulder to his mother while she worked.

“You can just buy dough, you know. You can even buy meat already ground up! It would save you a lot of time!” He chirped, watching as she diligently crafted each buuz. A low, thoughtful hum rolled out over her lips and she shook her head. He puffed out his cheeks. “Why not? You spend all day making buuz when you could spend only half of one! It doesn’t make sense.”

Ochmaa smiled, patient and warm, her attention remaining on her work. “Do you know why my buuz are so delicious?” She asked after a long silence, pausing and pressing her hands flat to the counter. Bataar stuck out his tongue and furrowed his brows. It felt like a trick question. “Because you’re a good cook, everything you make is delicious, mama!” He chimed, pleased with what he thought was the right answer. The udgan chuckled and shook her head. “Anyone can be a good cook with the right recipe, but that is not it.” Bataar huffed and sunk into thought, scratching at the mop of inky curls that hung to his shoulders.

After silence filled the room for more than a beat, Ochmaa continued, “Everything I make is with love. The desire to nourish, to bring enjoyment to those I care about. Intention is important in anything one does. Whether it is a chore or a hobby. The intent is as important as the outcome. If I was to take shortcuts, cut corners, the intent would not be the same. The hard work and care put into kneading the dough would be gone, the effort would be lost and with it the love that goes into the extra task.”

“Huh. I think I know what you mean,” he mumbled.

“Mmm. Good. There is no cutting corners when it comes to love. You should always remember that, my son.”

[gutterghosts]

Prompt #4 - Free Day - Picnic

“I simply cannot believe that, Sir Reginald,” Saran gasped, a hand clasped to her chest, her face stricken with horror as she stared down into the large eyes of her dear friend. “We both know she is a flirt, but that she would run off with, of all people, Stinky Pete and show up pregnant after? Goodness.” Still in shock over such news, her cake was forgotten and she shakily lifted the pristine porcelain cup to her lips for a sip of tea. “I am so sorry, I know that you loved her dearly.” Reginald deflated some, letting out a displeased chitter.

“Now, now. Don’t get down on yourself. You will make an excellent partner to someone one day, but you can’t just go rushing into something recklessly just because Orange Marmalade broke your heart. I always knew that Stinky Pete was a scoundrel,” she hissed against the brim of her cup. “From the moment he bit me at our last tea party. I knew he was a menace!” A hand slapped to the checkered blanket and her lonely guest jumped in surprise.

“My apologies, Sir Reginald, it just makes me so mad! He has been nothing but trouble since he came along. Do you remember when he got into that scuffle with Diego Dynamite. I just thought Diego was being grumpy because he had fleas, but… it was just the beginning.” She stared down at the heartbroken Reginald before she reached over and gave him an affectionate scritch behind the ears. “You are the best marmot I know, don’t let this get you down,” she assured him, sliding her unfinished slice of cake over to him. The fuzzy marmot lordling dug into it, greedily devouring everything last morsel.

“Anyway, I should be getting back to work, don’t let the drama get you down, Sir Reginald. I heard that Petunia has been hanging around again, you should shoot your shot with her. She seems like a nice marmot,” she offered the bit of advice as she pushed to her feet and collected her plates and cups, tucking them away in her basket the checkered blanket. “Don’t let heartbreak hold you back. You are a strong, smart marmot. A smartmot! Know your worth!” With another gentle pat to the top of the marmot’s head, she cut a path back to the city, passing a familiar Brass Blades that stood watch at the city gates.

“Ah, Archon! How’re your friends?” The scruffy Highlander asked.

“Oh, well, poor Sir Reginald is dealing with a terrible bout of heartbreak over Orange Marmalade but I think he’ll be okay,” she sighed, shaking her head. “But… I am off to work now. Here! I saved you some cake.” Handing off a small neatly tied box to the man. “Have a nice day, Malachai!”

As the Xaela toddled off into the city proper, the Blades’ partner cut a look down to him. “Didnae know she was out there eatin’ wit’ royalty,” the Roegadyn hummed, looking over toward where the woman had been previously picnicking.

“Huh? Oh. No. She has a weird little tea party with the marmots a few times a moon.”

“Marmots?”

“Yeah, it’s weird, but… at least she isn’t beating the shit out of anyone today.”

[gutterghosts]

Prompt 3 - Temper

Fifteen summers past…

Seated, cross-legged, eyes closed, her tongue ran across the back of her teeth. She could still taste the blood in her mouth, it permeated from where it had leaked down her face from her nose. “You shouldn’t let them push you around, Sarantsatsral,” her brother said as he wiped her face. They were in the quiet warmth of their yurt. Their mother and father were out on a hunt and Borgijin had been left to mind his sister. The diminutive Dhoro sighed and shook her head. “There is no point. They’re all bigger than me. They’ll just be meaner if I fight back.” Her brother clicked his tongue in a gentle chide. “Then get angry. Get so angry that you scare them.” Saran deflated some. She didn’t have it in her to be that kind of angry. Her brother knew it as much as she did, in the seven summers that he had known her she had never gotten angry, never brandished the temper of their mother. More like their father, quiet and thoughtful, more willing to show defiance through an unbreakable spirit rather than a quickly lost temper. Borgijin sighed and reached over to ruffle her hair. “I’ll talk to them. Don’t worry about it, little lamb.” With a smile he scooped her up and set her on her feet. “I heard Tuya was making boortsog, why don’t we go see if we can sneak a few pieces?”

Present day…

Crack! Bone and cartilage squelched and crunched beneath a balled fist. One after the other collided with a bruised and battered face until her knuckles split and bled, until the dirt around them was splattered in a ruddy hue. “Whew, she is really going to town on the guy,” a nearby Brass Blade whistled low. “Should we… stop her?”

The second, a tall and broad shouldered Roegadyn shrugged. “I’m on break, I ain’t stoppin’ shite.” The two watched with mounting grotesque fascination as the man flailed to defend himself before curling in a fetal position. The woman, who had seemed much larger when her fists had been flying, stood to her full height. “I was taller than ‘er when I was ten,” the Roegadyn snorted. “Embarrassin’ for the lad. Gettin’ bested by a wee lass.”

Her partner sniffed dryly and rubbed his nose. “Must of really pissed her off.”

“Mm.”

The dainty Dhoro looked down at her hands, then looked toward the man trembling beneath her, her shadow stretching across his body. An abnormally long shadow at this hour, a shadow that seemed to move even when she stood still. “I told you not to fuck with me, Adrian. But you just didn’t listen,” she tutted softly, wiping blood from her face with the back of her hand. “I really don’t like when I get like this, you know? An ugly thing. Letting that beast out. It’s not so easy to put back in the cage once you free it.” Her head lolled to the side, her eyes following the trail of carnage from his bruised body up to his misshapen face. “Tch.” Her tongue clicked against the back of her teeth. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Sorry,” he sputtered, spitting out a broken tooth onto the ground.

“Sorry for what?”

“….”

Her boot pressed to his shoulder, pinning him to his back as a hand dipped into her jacket to retrieved a handkerchief. With an exasperated sigh, she wiped her hands. “Sorry for what, Adrian,” she echoed.

“Sorry I tried to rob you.” In comparison to some Ul’dahn vigilantism, the man had fared rather well, still alive and breathing despite the blood and broken bones. Another chiding click of her tongue as she bent down and fished through his pockets until she found the jar he had tried to withhold while simultaneously taking her gil at knife point. She eyed the jar from behind reflective red lenses. A red-stained hand smoothed down her jacket and she stared down at him for several long moments.

“Next time, bring a bigger knife.”

[gutterghosts]

Prompt 2 - Bolt

There was an art to escaping. At ten, Saran knew that. No one was born good at art, it took years of refining the skill to become great. At eleven, she had orchestrated seventeen escapes. At thirteen, she had doubled it. She’d wait for nights when Rakim, the owner of the brothel, had drank too much and slept heavy. She’d loosen the bars on the windows or the planks on the door. Once she had chipped away the stone flooring and dug a hole through the dirt and into the garden. As the moons passed and stretched into years, she had gotten more creative, but each time would end the same. The small Xaela would bolt across the garden toward the jungle, a blur of dark fabric and blue hair in the night.

She almost made it once. Once she had gotten to the jungle, fighting through the verdant thicket, she had her first taste of freedom in years only to have it cruelly snatched away from her. It had become a game for the guards. Guards that had been hired to deal with unruly guests found their time occupied playing cat and mouse with a girl that fought for freedom with rabid fervor. They’d watch her run and roll dice to see who had the misfortune of going after her. Time and time again they would drag her back kicking and screaming. More than a few of them brandished scars left by the girl child that fought tooth and claw each time she was caught.

When the beatings stopped working, when the scars threatened to devalue her, Rakim had tried to starve her. Even that had not drained the girl of her desire to escape. On days she could barely stand, she’d slip out into the cool night. When nothing else worked, he shackled her ankle and bound it to a chain bolted to the floor of her dark, dusty room. Just long enough for her to claw at the window, just long enough for her to look out toward the jungle on long nights and wonder what if. She had fought and flailed until her ankle bled, until the floor of her room was smeared in a brilliant shade of vermillion. Day in and day out, in that sad, lonely room, looking at freedom just outside of her reach.

[gutterghosts]

Prompt 1 - Cross

“Ochie,” the feeble voice rang out, soft and confused, “what’re ya doin’ here at this hour?” Leonard was ninety-six summers old. A Gyr Abanian brawler that had, in his twilight years, made the most of his time in the refugee camps outside Ul’dah. He has regaled the children and adults alike with stories of his youth, he had helped instill a culture in the younger generation that had been stolen, he drank too much and smoked too much, but most of all, Leonard had lived. He had also struck up an unlikely friendship with the blind udgan that often visited the camp; bringing treats or tending to the sick. Ochie, as he had affectionately dubbed Ochmaa, had become a regular visitor to the grizzled old man and while he would never admit it, he quite looked forward to her visits. Visits that rarely came so late.

“You know why I am here.” It was a tone of voice Leonard had never heard before. There was a softness to it, tones of sadness lilting her words like a grim hymn. He cocked his head and, when he looked at her blue face and her puffy eyes, he indeed knew why she was there. “Ah, shit. I went and died didn’t I?” He barked a laugh and shook his head. Ochmaa forced a smile and nodded. “You died,” she repeated and reached out her hands for him. “Y’know when you was always talkin’ ‘bout spirits n’ shit I thought ya just had a screw or two loose,” he admitted as his lips screwed up.

“Bah,” she balked, gently holding his hands as he placed them in hers. Slowly they walked, out of the old, ragged tent. Out of the old dusty camp. They walked to the river and sat on the stones. They didn’t feel cool or warm, they didn’t feel like anything. They sat until the sun chased away the night sky, until the twilight painted the star-freckled sky in shades of pink.

“I wasn’t ready to die,” he said.

“We rarely are,” Ochmaa hummed softly. “Are you scared?”

“Nah, ain’t been scared of shit in my life. This ain’t no different.” But the tremble in his voice betrayed him.

“It’s okay if you are scared.”

“Maybe just a little.” He admitted reluctantly. Ochmaa smiled. “Ochie?”

“Yes, Leonard?”

“Thank you for this.”

Her head dipped in a nod and the reserved smile bloomed into something less sad. “It is nice to have company when you cross. I am glad I could be here.” There was a long pause. “But it is time to go.” There was nothing else said between them and, just like that, he was gone. Remnants of what he once was dissipating, spiraling toward the sky like stardust.

“Goodbye, Leonard.”

Goodbye, Ochie.