S E I J I
One moment, Seiji is considering. The next, he is addressed by a woman he doesn’t know. She’s just a cloud of fiery curls, a brisk admonishment, and then her fingers are on the locks. He steps back, fear a heady jolt in his system. If you know her — but the things outside cried out in human voices, too. Could they not have stolen Kiada’s? Seiji’s own voice catches in his throat. But then the door is open and Kiada spills in, a breathless whirlwind.
Seiji has enough time to glance at the stranger, and at the door, and move to shut it if she does not — immediately. But then his eyes flick to the calf, back to Kiada’s face, to whatever she grips in her hands. He died.
“Who?” Seiji asks, his brows drawing together anxiously. He moves toward her, wondering if he should touch her — a hand on her elbow, steadying. She smells of cold, of darkness, Deepfrost clinging to her clothes. When did she leave? And why?
“Can you sit?” he tries to draw her farther in, to the nearest chair. She does not appear injured, but his eyes rake anxiously up and down her frame anyway, searching for a limp, a stain. Then they dart away again, scouring the room. Surely someone else in the room knows her? Knows what might have happened? He gazes around imploringly, hopeful. Tries to catch the eye of the redhead. What is happening now?
One moment, Seiji is considering. The next, he is addressed by a woman he doesn’t know. She’s just a cloud of fiery curls, a brisk admonishment, and then her fingers are on the locks. He steps back, fear a heady jolt in his system. If you know her — but the things outside cried out in human voices, too. Could they not have stolen Kiada’s? Seiji’s own voice catches in his throat. But then the door is open and Kiada spills in, a breathless whirlwind.
Seiji has enough time to glance at the stranger, and at the door, and move to shut it if she does not — immediately. But then his eyes flick to the calf, back to Kiada’s face, to whatever she grips in her hands. He died.
“Who?” Seiji asks, his brows drawing together anxiously. He moves toward her, wondering if he should touch her — a hand on her elbow, steadying. She smells of cold, of darkness, Deepfrost clinging to her clothes. When did she leave? And why?
“Can you sit?” he tries to draw her farther in, to the nearest chair. She does not appear injured, but his eyes rake anxiously up and down her frame anyway, searching for a limp, a stain. Then they dart away again, scouring the room. Surely someone else in the room knows her? Knows what might have happened? He gazes around imploringly, hopeful. Tries to catch the eye of the redhead. What is happening now?
The rain is full
of ghosts tonight
of ghosts tonight
