They had ghosts too: the children they once were, still haunting them faintly in the background of their selves. Sad-eyed little Alice, held together by alphabets and poetry fragments. And young Daniel, who had learned so thoroughly not to flinch that, even now, he never noticed when he accidentally burned a finger, and was confused when Alice cared about it. But she did care, and he knew the right poems to whisper when she needed them, and every day the ghosts grew a little fainter.
