She is a ghost. He can not keep his eyes from her, even though he must always look where he is going. His eyes betray his secret fears.

He takes her down one long corridor after another, both stark and sudden against the aging stones.

– through a sliver of light –

He keeps himself from flinching, from gasping.

He avoids those places where the light gleams bright, careful not to pull her pale figure too far from the reaching shadows. It is a delicate balance.

In the light, she winks out of sight. The dark threatens to take her back. He can not risk her vanishing. He has nothing else to which he can cling.

She is a ghost, but moves like a child. He is a child, but he feels like a ghost.

His hands are full of nothing.