After finishing your business, you came face to face with a small silhouette surrounded by a white ectoplasmic glow. Olin, that brave young boy, sat on your family dining table, next to your bag, and Usha peacefully slumbering inside her open protective casing. Gentle and fair, he remained, his hair appearing a cute dark blue with a large streak of gold on its front.
''You...you...'' You whispered, shock chasing all lethargy out of your head. ''...Your mother called for you, Olin.'' You didn't want to admonish the boy, yet the words escaped your mouth.
He looked at you and silently nodded, his expression changed into a lonely guilt as he looked at his mother sleeping inside the occupied guest room you've left open.
Unity.
Right. Ghosts are beings of souls; emotions influence them much, much more than any other entity. Olin is ten, a preteen. Dread, hesitation, and shyness could all be the reasons for his absence tonight. I shouldn't fault him.
''Your mother loves you very, very much, Olin.'' You spoke gently, calmly, and carefully walked closer. ''Is there anything you need? Want? A little bit of courage before speaking to her tomorrow?''
He looked tense as he peered at you, almost scared. He leaned down to pinch a fork, brought it to his lips and held it, then began a familiar mimicry with his fingers.
''A flute? Do you want to hear me play?''
He nodded excitedly, the fork clattered on the ground, forgotten.
''...okay. Outside, though, I don't want to wake everyone.''
The boy soundlessly hopped off the table and trotted toward the closed door, mimicking the act of opening it, and filtered through the wood outside.
Okay. If you need a bit more courage, little guy, I'll help you get it.
Bringing out the baron's gift rekindled the ball of stress in your guts. You only know how to play one song, and you've come to accept it as a part of who you are, but you haven't played since returning from the baron's manor, after your so-important meeting with Nyct...
If my song can bring a little peace to this ghostly boy, then it is my duty to do it.
With this resolve in your heart, you wrapped your mother's fur cloak around your shoulder (that she left resting on the door) and exited into either early morning or late night with your flute in hand.
Olin sat near the extinguished campfire at the very edge of what little luminescence your homefield could grasp from the house; his internal light stood out beautifully in the darkness; it also seemed to increase the dreary shadows of the surrounding forest.
''Alright, I might be a bit rusty, but...'' You gently blew into your instrument, extracting an equally soft noise. ''...it's a good one.''
The ghostly boy silently waited for you to begin, and eventually, you placed the correct noises in your mind, imagined the movement of your fingers and the proper cadence of your breath to create the only song you know.