Constance can touch ghosts.

The lost spirit lies its head in her lap.

He’d taken his own life.

He was still trapped with his pain.


Constance stroked the spirit.

She sang spells over him.

The spirit shook, cried out.

The lonely house bled out secrets.


Eventually the spirit was still.

The ectoplasm of sorrows was spent.

He faded, and slipped underground.

Free to pass on to another life.


The aura was gone from the room,

But tears ran down Constance’s face.

The sorrows clung to her, like the

Earthy, rotten smell of the house.


Constance can touch ghosts.

But the ghosts touch her,

And their loss swirls into her.

Losing light to light the way.

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