a draining of warmt

nor Vance, alive, ske

whisper, a cold dr

my empty shell,

yes, glittered wit

es of that old book Julian s

, her voice a silken mockery

ust a thing, l

ew face, my face, with

y hands, flex

ains, so light, so desic

ind her, a he

t of the town's cemetery,

e, a spectral groundskeeper,

d, her voice sharp, no longer try

er nodded, its

gan t

fe being erased

rne was now

hing but a ghost, a horrified

my husban

o her becoming truly real, to

one his family had passed down, w

thought s