The song of your nostalgia, of the memory that followed your entire life. Someone trapped inside a tiny cavern who, despite her trial, worries only about a precious friend in the mountain of her prison. Slow, melodious, methodic... playing feels right. And it eventually came to an end, bringing a strange feeling of relaxation.

Maybe I should play before sleeping...

''Olin?''

His growing luminescence heralded the pre-teen's approach. The boy had walked close enough to hover his hand above your shoulder.

''You understand that touching others can be... dangerous, yes?''

He nodded, his golden eyes showing a resolved expression.

Unity.

Therein lies the danger of interacting with ghosts. Touching is how their souls can interact with the living, by flowing into you, then through your blood, bones, and skin, they can interact with your soul and attempt genuine possession. Dangerous, treacherous wraiths will attempt to lull people like you into this exact situation. To permit them. To lower the gates of your mind-fortress.

You've investigated this boy today. He convinced Aryel to tutor him, became something of an errand boy in the Mamono village, pushed his mother to establish herself as a doctor for them, and was appreciated enough for a quiet shrine to be built in his honor... You haven't known him personally, but his life didn't leave the impact of a villainous soul. But who can tell how much death could change him?

''Okay. I'll trust you.'' He is Augustine's son. If helping him rest easy means taking a risk, so be it.

Slowly but surely, Olin moved closer. His projected radiance made it difficult to look around, as the white light irritated your eyes. You saw him hover his hand above your arm... and it filtered through your flesh to reach inside.

The feeling of his intention was similar to those moments when your mother inspected your soul. His will was foreign, guarded, scared, and overwhelmed, but strangely insistent, if not desperate. A strange, unique cocktail of emotions; he desperately wanted to show you something. So you let it.

Mom always said to imagine a fortress in my head...Now to open its gate.

You caught the faint taste of iron at the back of your tongue, the scent of wet earth after rain. A flicker of something that wasn’t your memory pressed close: a child’s laughter echoing in a warehouse, a surge of fear swallowed before it broke the surface. It all passed in a breath, leaving only the warmth that lingered where no warmth should be, and the quiet plea carried in his touch.