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It will be fine. Go and season the door, just like regular people do all the time.
“My burden. My curse.” Bran had drawn close without Daniel realising. A change of tension in the chair’s fabric told him Bran had placed his hand on its back. “Eliza Myricks.”
“You’re dead, aren’t you?”
“I am not a ghost, if that is what you are wondering. But I am not alive, either.”
Dark shadows underlined his eyes, which were heavy-lidded and dull. His lips were cracked, his cheeks sunken. He had no wrinkles or creases that came with age, but his skin was paper-thin, ashen grey, and mapped entirely with black veins. It gave the impression that his skin was cracked like parchment.
