"I feel like a ghost," he said in a low voice, sounding defeated. "A thing made of battlefield ash and remembered screams. I don't know how to be anything else anymore." "Then don't be." I ran my fingers along the edge of his sharp-tipped ear, then started rubbing it, a weary smile touching my mouth as he relaxed despite himself. "If you're a ghost, haunt me. Let me hold you when your nightmares leave you screaming. Water the ash with tears and watch the wildflowers bloom with me." I rested my face against his, and he didn't pull away. "I always loved ghost stories. I can love yours, too."
