Her head turns a little to the side, hawkish, giving her good eye the better angle to look at him in the dark. Her arms cross, hands curling over bare skin. She's tightening, forcing her body to remain steady, to keep from shaking or trembling or falling in the aftershocks of the quake in her chest. Misery hangs on her like a coat, and loss soaks her to the bone; for all the colors she wears in clothing and in ink, there's no vibrancy to her heart.

"Sometimes," she says, hands tightening, squeezing her arms, holding herself so tight she might crush herself into nothing. "But it won't matter, if one of us is dead, or dreaming."

Whether confession, accusation, or defense, it's difficult to tell. There's no life to the words.

Maybe he isn't the ghost in the room.