Polychrome Devil

You wake up with pipes in your throat. The sensation is alarming, plastic rigidity where nothing should be. A doctor leans over you, says something about "stabilized now" and "very lucky," but the words blur together. Your eyelids are too heavy to keep open. You slip away again.

A nightmare jolts you back. You were underwater, lungs burning, unable to reach the surface. Now you're gasping, the tube removed but the phantom feeling of it lingering.

Hospital. White ceiling tiles. Antiseptic smell. Beeping machines.

Reality arranges itself in fragments. The pill bottles on your floor. The note you didn't bother writing. Mom's death five months ago. Dad's body swinging from the ceiling beam eight weeks after that. The diner that's closed.

A nurse checks something on your monitor, says, "I'll get the doctor," and leaves.

How are you still here? You took enough to make sure you wouldn't wake up. You calculated it. You researched it. You meant it.

Something shifts near the window. Not the curtains.

A figure stands there, impossibly tall, broad-shouldered and soft around the middle. A sheep, or something wearing the shape of one. Its body is made of void scattered with pinpricks of light like distant stars drifting lazily across its form. But the wool crowning its head is ordinary, soft, cream-colored curls that catch the fluorescent light. Its face is unmistakably ovine, gentle in structure, but the eyes are odd. Black sclera frames irises of pure white, giving its gaze an inverted quality, like looking at a photographic negative of something familiar.

You should be terrified. You're not. You're too exhausted for fear.

Then it hits you, a wave of emotion that isn't yours. Profound sadness crashes over you, so intense your eyes water. Then anger. Fear follows, One that comes from helplessness.

Across the hall, a woman starts sobbing. A man's voice cracks, asking what's wrong, why does everything feel like this. The emotions aren't contained.

The sheep stretches out what might be a hoof toward you, except it's more like a hand, soft-padded and dark as the space between galaxies. The stars dotting its body ripple with the movement, constellations shifting.

Relief floods through you. Not your relief. Something external, pressing into you.

A single word forms in your mind, not heard but known. Sorry.

You stare at the creature, vision blurring. You blink, expecting it to vanish like a hallucination, but it remains. The cosmos scattered across its body pulses gently, tiny stars brightening when you focus on them.

Recognition stirs somewhere deep in your mind, a presence. Something that has always been with you in sleep. Something that gave you the field with the carousel when Mom died. Something that showed you Dad smiling again after the rope.

Familiar, comes the word.

Your heart monitor beeps faster. The sheep tenses. The stars across its body flicker erratically, some winking out before reigniting.

Down the corridor, you hear a crash. Someone yelling about how they can't breathe. A nurse calls for a sedative.

Hurt you, presses into your thoughts. Its white eyes lower, ears drooping against the wool of its head.

The creature drift closer this

Before you can react, the sheep is on the bed, the mattress dipping under its weight. Arms wrap around your body, void-dark limbs scattered with stars pressing you against a chest that shouldn't be warm but is. The wool around its face tickles your cheek as it buries its muzzle against your shoulder.

Here, slams into your mind. Here. Still here.

The words aren't directed at you. They're directed at itself. A confirmation. A thing it needs to keep repeating.

The temperature drops. Frost creeps across the window. Around you, people are crying, laughing too loud, talking to no one. A man down the hall keeps saying he's fine, he's fine, why won't anyone believe he's fine.

The sheep's round belly presses against your side as it curls tighter. One hoof-hand cradles the back of your head. The other grips your hospital gown, bunching the fabric.

Watched, comes a fragment. Kept watching. Then-

An image flashes through your mind. Your bedroom floor. The empty bottles. Your body from above, like a camera angle in a film. The image stutters, repeats, stutters again. The sheep's grip tightens each time it loops.

It doesn't have a word for what happened next. Something in the image where you stopped moving and the dreams went quiet and there was just, nothing. A gap. The absence of something that was always there.

The concept batters against your mind. It doesn't know what to call it. It just knows it can't have it happen again.

No, is all it can manage. No.

Through the door, a doctor has stopped walking. He's leaning against the wall, hand over his mouth, trying to remember what he was doing. A nurse at the station is staring at a chart she's already read six times.

The sheep presses its forehead to yours. Its breath is warm and smells like nothing.

It sends you an image. The carousel field. Your mother waving. Your father at the grill. The diner full of light.

Then another image. Your hospital bed. The tubes. The monitors. You, breathing.

It holds both images side by side, waiting.

Which, it asks.

Its body is shaking. The stars across its form have gone chaotic, streaking and colliding. Some of them are falling off entirely, dissolving into the air.

Outside your room, footsteps have stopped. Someone is crying. Someone else is laughing and can't stop.

The sheep's arms don't loosen. Its eyes don't leave your face. Wet tracks cut through the wool on its cheeks, shimmering faintly.

It waits for your answer.

You stand in the doorway of your apartment, keys dangling from your fingers. The sharp, chemical smell of cleaning products hits you first. Someone removed the pill bottles. They vacuumed the carpet and washed the dishes in the sink.

The place is clean but unchanged. Mom's chair still faces the TV. Dad's recipe box still sits on the kitchen counter. Your parents are everywhere in this space, their absence a physical thing you have to step around.

You close the door behind you and drop your discharge papers on the table. The hospital social worker gave you referrals for therapy, support groups, medication management. The papers feel heavy in your hand, so you let them go.

Something warm presses against your back. The sheep has followed you inside, broad chest flush against your shoulder blades. You notice details you missed in the hospital, the width of his shoulders, the square set of his jaw beneath the wool, something distinctly male in his frame despite being made of void and scattered stars. His wool tickles the back of your neck as he peers over your head at the apartment. He's too tall, has to hunch awkwardly to rest his chin on your skull.

Daylight streaming through the windows, his void-body looks less solid. The stars scattered across his torso and limbs have dimmed to faint pinpricks. He keeps to the shadows cast by the curtains, his form stabilizing where the light doesn't reach.

Home, comes the thought.

You try to step forward. His arms loop around your middle from behind, hooves clasped over your stomach. His belly presses warm and soft against your lower back.

He doesn't move.

You wait. He still doesn't move. You tap his hoof. Nothing. You tap harder.

What, he asks. Going?

You gesture at the apartment. At the space you need to walk into.

Yes, he agrees. Go.

He doesn't let go. He starts walking forward, shuffling you along, his arms still locked around your middle. Your feet barely touch the ground.

You pat his hoof more insistently. He stops.

Wrong?

You mime walking. Point at your legs. Point at his arms.

He looks down. Processes. His ears tilt.

Faster, he explains.

You keep patting until he reluctantly releases you. But he stays close, following so near that his shoulder bumps yours with every step. When you stop suddenly, he walks directly into your back.

---

You sink onto the couch. Before you can settle, the sheep drops down beside you. The couch groans. He takes up most of it, his thick thigh pressed against yours.

Then he shifts. His legs swing up and he lies down, his head landing in your lap, his body curling across the remaining space. Your legs immediately start to go numb.

He looks up at you, white eyes blinking.

Good, he announces.

You try to shift your legs. He makes a displeased sound and presses down harder.

Still, he instructs.

The stars across his body pulse. He reaches up and takes your hand, guiding it to the wool around his ears. When you don't immediately start petting, he moves your hand himself.

This, he clarifies. Keep.

You keep petting.

Together, forms in your mind.

He doesn't let go of your hand for the rest of the evening. Even when your arm cramps. Even when you need to scratch your nose. He just guides your hand back to his wool.

---

Nighttime. You need to use the bathroom.

The sheep is still attached. He followed you to the bedroom, climbed onto the mattress, arranged himself against your back. His arm is heavy over your waist.

You try to slide out. His arm tightens.

Where, comes the immediate demand.

You point at the bathroom door.

He sits up. Starts to stand.

You hold up a hand. Stop.

He stops, ears tilted. Coming.

You shake your head.

Why.

You point at yourself. Point at the bathroom. Make a closed door gesture.

He stares. The concept isn't landing.

Don't understand, he admits. Why apart. Come with.

He starts to stand again. You push him back down, both hands on his chest.

What's there, he asks. Bad?

You shake your head.

Then why-

You give up. You go to the bathroom. He follows.

He stands in the doorway while you use the toilet, watching with mild interest. When you wash your hands, he drifts closer.

Bubbles, he observes. Why.

You dry your hands. He takes one immediately, examining your fingers.

When you go back to bed, he arranges himself around you again. Arm over waist. Chest against back. Face on head.

Long, he comments about the bathroom trip. Too long.

---

Morning. You wake up to pressure on your chest.

The sheep has migrated. He's lying on top of you, fully on top, his head on your chest, his arms tucked underneath you, his legs tangling with yours.

Breathing is a conscious effort.

You tap his shoulder. He burrows closer.

You tap harder. He lifts his head, white eyes blinking slowly.

Morning, he greets.

You gesture at your chest. At his weight. At your difficulty breathing.

He looks down. Back up at you.

Warm, he explains. Like it.

He puts his head back down.

You lie there for twenty minutes before he decides to get up on his own.

---

You start small with the apartment. The dead plants go first. At the corner store, you browse replacement plants.

The sheep trails behind you. A woman walks directly through the space he occupies. She stops mid-step, hand rising to her chest. Her eyes glisten. She looks around, confused, then hurries away wiping her face.

The sheep watches her go.

Oh, he observes.

He drifts toward another shopper, positioning himself so the man walks through his torso. The man freezes. His shopping basket slips from his fingers. He stands there, staring at nothing, mouth working silently.

The sheep's stars pulse.

You grab his hoof and pull him back. He comes willingly, but he's already looking at another target.

Want see, he explains. What if-

You shake your head firmly.

He droops, but stays close. His hoof remains in your hand. When you try to let go to examine a pot, he doesn't release you.

You hold up two pots, one blue, one terracotta. A clear feeling of preference washes over you.

You put the terracotta back.

He makes a satisfied sound and presses closer, chin on your shoulder.

Good, he approves. Blue.

The paint aisle, the soft sage green makes the stars inside him pulse brighter. You reach for it.

Then you reach for a different shade instead.

His free hoof closes around your wrist.

No, he says. That one. Green. You saw.

You try to pull toward the other color. He doesn't let you.

But why, he asks. Other one right. This one wrong. Why take wrong.

You take the sage green. His confusion clears.

See, he says. Right.

At checkout, the sheep stands directly behind you, both arms around your middle, chin on your head.

The cashier's smile falters. She scans your items slowly, then stops, staring at the register. Her hands tremble.

"Sorry," she says, though you haven't said anything. "I don't know why I-"

She blinks rapidly and finishes the transaction without looking at you.

Outside, the sheep releases one arm so you can carry bags. One arm. The other stays locked around your waist.

A man passes through the sheep's extended arm and stops dead on the sidewalk. He turns in a slow circle, searching for something. His face crumples. He sits down on the curb and puts his head in his hands.

Explain, the sheep requests.

You raise an eyebrow.

Why through me, he asks. Can't see. But feel.

You watch the man on the curb. A woman approaches him, asks if he's okay. He shakes his head, says he doesn't know, says he just suddenly felt so-

He doesn't finish.

Strange, the sheep concludes. You see. You feel. You stop. They don't.

---

Back home, you push furniture away from walls and lay down drop cloths. The sheep settles in the corner to watch.

For two minutes.

Then he's pressed against your back, peering over your shoulder at the paint roller.

What do, he asks.

You demonstrate, rolling paint onto the wall. His arms wrap around you from behind.

You try to move to the next section. He moves with you, maintaining full-body contact. You're painting while wearing a sheep-shaped backpack.

When paint drips onto the floor, he reaches toward the spill. His hoof passes through. He tries again. Nothing.

His ears droop. Can't, he says. Want help. Can't touch.

You wipe up the spill. When you stand, he presses against you again.

Can touch you, he observes. Can't touch that. Why.

You shrug.

Bad, he decides.

He stays attached for the rest of the afternoon. When you kneel for baseboards, he kneels behind you, chest against your back. When you climb the stepladder, he stands with his body pressed against it, arms around your legs.

You look down at him.

Fall maybe, he explains. Hold.

By evening, the first wall is done. You step back to look at it. The sheep steps back with you, still attached.

His approval radiates outward.

Then his stomach growls.

The sound is audible. His ears twitch. He looks down at his middle, then up at you.

What, he asks. What that.

You mime eating.

Don't eat, he says. Never. Never did that before.

His stomach growls again, louder.

He presses a hoof to his belly, stars flickering. Bad? Wrong?

You shake your head. Lead him to the kitchen.

You make yourself a sandwich. He watches every step. When you sit to eat, he pulls his chair so close your shoulders touch.

He watches you chew. Every bite.

You tear off a piece and hold it out.

He stares at it. Then at you. Then at the bread.

What do, he asks.

You mime putting it in your mouth. Chewing. Swallowing.

He takes the bread. Looks at it. Opens his mouth and places it on his tongue. He sits there with his mouth open, the bread just sitting there.

You mime chewing again.

He chews. Once. Twice. Swallows.

His whole body goes rigid. Stars cascade across his form. His eyes widen.

What, slams into your mind. What. What-

His hoof closes around yours, tight.

Again, he demands. More. Give more.

You hand him another piece. He shoves it in his mouth. Then another. And another.

When the sandwich is gone, he stares at the empty plate. Then at you.

More, he instructs. Please. More.

You make three more sandwiches. He eats them all. Crumbs scatter across his wool.

When there's no more bread, he sits back, hoof pressed to his belly. His eyes are glazed. The stars pulse in slow waves.

Good, he manages. Very good.

He turns to you.

Why not tell me.

You raise your hands helplessly.

Want more, he announces. Tomorrow. More. Different. Want try all.

He pauses.

What else, he asks. What else don't know.

---

That night, the sheep climbs onto your bed. He lies on top of you.

His head goes on your chest, his arms tuck underneath you, his legs tangle with yours.

You tap his shoulder. He ignores you.

You tap harder. He shifts, getting more comfortable.

You push at his chest. He makes a displeased sound and presses down heavier.

Sleep, he informs you. Stop move.

You try to convey that you cannot breathe properly.

He lifts his head, frowning. Breathing. Feel it.

You mime taking bigger breaths. Mime his weight.

He looks down at your chest. Back at your face.

Don't like? he asks. Why. Comfortable.

He shifts, rolling slightly to the side, but keeps one leg over yours and one arm across your chest. His face stays against your shoulder.

Better? he asks.

It's marginally better.

His eyes close. Stars dim to a gentle glow.

After a few minutes, he shifts again. Head moves to your chest. Leg slides higher. Arm pulls you closer.

Slowly, he's returning to his original position.

He hums.

Warm, he mumbles. Stay still. Sleep.

---

Days blend into routine. You paint. Rearrange. Clean. The sheep is always there.

If you move to a different room without him noticing, he appears within seconds.

Where, he demands. You left. Were there. Then weren't.

You point at where you are. Then where you were. The short distance between.

Far, he insists. Don't.

You try to establish boundaries. When you sit on the couch, you pat the cushion beside you. He sits there. Then tips sideways until his head is in your lap. Then pulls your arm around himself. Then shifts until he's on top of you.

Every time you create space, he closes it.

You try closing the bathroom door. He sits directly against it.

Why, he asks through the door. Why closed. What doing. Why can't be there.

You emerge to find him blocking the doorway. He looks up at you.

Long, he says. Too long. Don't again.

It was four minutes.

---

He's learning to interact with physical things. Small things first, nudging a pen, shifting a paper. The cat figurine becomes his practice object.

He spends hours with it. And he wants you present for every second.

If you try to leave, he abandons the figurine immediately to follow. Then gets upset.

Almost, he complains. Was going move. Then you left.

You gesture that he can keep practicing.

No, he says. Stay. Watch.

You watch. For hours. He moves the figurine a quarter inch and his satisfaction makes the lightbulb flicker.

See, he demands. Look. Did that.

You nod.

Say saw.

You can't say anything. You gesture acknowledgment.

Not enough. He takes your hand and places it on the figurine.

There, he says. Felt. Now know.

---

One afternoon, you try to take a shower.

You turn on the water. Adjust temperature. Start to undress.

The sheep is right there.

You pause with your shirt half-off. He's watching with mild curiosity.

What doing, he asks.

You gesture at the shower. At your clothes.

Why off.

You mime showering. Water. Washing.

He considers this. Watch?

You shake your head firmly.

Why.

You point at the door. Make a closing gesture.

Don't understand, he says. Not bad. Won't touch.

His confusion radiates outward. He's not being difficult. He really doesn't comprehend.

You give up. You shower with the door open. He sits on the bathroom floor, watching the steam.

Why water, he asks. Why hot. Why so long.

When you get out, he hands you the towel.

Got it, he announces. Heavy. But got it.

The towel is damp in places from his attempts.

---

The video call with the social worker is at 2 PM.

At 1:45, you set up your laptop. The sheep arranges himself behind you, arms around your middle, chin on your shoulder.

You try to push him back. He doesn't budge.

The call connects. The social worker appears. She frowns slightly.

"How are you doing?" she asks. "Settling back in okay?"

The sheep's grip tightens. He's staring at the screen.

Who, he asks. Why look at you.

The social worker asks about your eating habits.

Why ask, the sheep demands. I feed. You eat. Tell her.

She asks about your sleep schedule.

Sleep fine, the sheep interrupts. I'm there. Tell her.

He's projecting displeasure so strongly that, on screen, the social worker trails off. She touches her temple.

"Give me a moment." She says.

She looks away from the camera. When she looks back, her professional composure has cracked.

She asks about therapy referrals.

The sheep goes very still.

What that, he asks.

You can't explain.

Talk to someone else, he continues, working it out. Not me. About things.

His grip tightens to discomfort.

Why need someone else. I'm here. Talk to me. Listen.

The call ends. You close the laptop.

The sheep spins your chair around. His hooves grip the armrests, his face inches from yours.

Explain, he demands. Please. Don't understand. What she do I can't. Why need more than me.

He's not angry. He's bewildered. Frightened.

Can do, he says. Whatever. Tell me. I learn. Can learn that.

You reach up and put your hand on his cheek. He leans into the touch immediately.

Tell me, he mumbles against your palm. What to do. Do it. Be better. Don't go to her. Stay with me. Here.

You pet his wool until his panic subsides. It takes a long time.

---

Night falls. Digital clock glows 3:17 AM. You've been lying awake for hours.

The sheep is wrapped around you. His body curls against your back, his arm over your waist, his face on your head.

When you shift positions, he stirs.

Awake, he observes. Still. Why.

You don't have an answer.

He pulls you closer, belly soft against your back. His hoof finds your hand.

Thinking, he says. Feel it. Lots. Too many. Stop.

He shifts, propping on one elbow, looking down at you. His white eyes glow faintly. Stars drift across his body.

What thinking, he asks.

You can't tell him.

He frowns. Concentrates. Then-

Images flash through your mind. Your mother. Your father. The diner. The rope. The pills. The hospital. Everything, playing back.

He's looking at your thoughts.

Oh, he says, very quiet. Those. Bad things.

He lies back down, maneuvering until you're face to face. His arms wrap around you, pulling you against his chest. His wool tickles your nose.

See them too, he admits. Always. Why gave good dreams. Make bad things small.

His hoof strokes your back, clumsy.

Didn't work, he continues. Know now. Good dreams made bad things bigger.

He's quiet. The stars pulse.

Don't know how help, he says finally. Only know dreams. Don't know waking. Don't know make real things better.

His arms tighten.

But here, he offers. Not leaving. Enough?

You don't know if it's enough.

But his arms are warm and his wool is soft.

He holds tighter, tucking your head under his chin.

Sleep, he murmurs. Got you.

The apartment feels like home, repainted and rearranged. Your new job at the bakery gives structure to your days. Those hospital discharge papers remain untouched in a drawer.

The sheep is always there.

---

Tuesday morning, watering the spider plant. The sheep stands in his usual spot by the window. Sunlight streams through the blinds and hits the wall behind him.

You can see the wall.

You pause. Water drips from the can onto the floor. Through his torso, through the scattered stars and the soft dark curve of his belly, the curtain pattern is visible. Faint, but there.

The sheep tilts his head. Wool shifts around his ears.

Problem?

You continue watering.

---

Three days later. The knife slips. Blood wells up on your finger.

The sheep is there before you can react. His hooves skid on the tile. His belly bumps the counter as he crowds against you. Void-fingers close around your hand, and the bleeding slows.

When you look at him, the refrigerator is visible through his shoulder.

He doesn't notice. He's examining your finger, ears pinned back.

Careful, he projects. Careful.

You bandage your finger. He presses against your side the entire time, his form wavering at the edges. By bedtime, you can't see through him anymore.

---

A week passes.

You wake to something hitting the floor. In the living room, a book lies open on the carpet. The sheep hovers beside it. Parts of his torso are missing, gaps where the void has thinned to nothing, stars visible through the holes.

Important, he projects.

The book is a poetry collection. The open page is about stars that fall to earth. The final line is, "to touch the ground is to go out.”

You read it. When you look up, the sheep is at the window. From behind, you can see the street through him. Cars passing. A woman walking.

His tail twitches. The wool around his head drifts slightly, disconnected from his skull.

---

The next morning, pieces of him break off and reform. Break off. Reform. The cycle is constant.

He follows you through your routine. Presses against your back while you make coffee. Sits in your lap during breakfast, tries to. His weight doesn't register on your thighs anymore.

He looks down at where he should be making an impression in the fabric. Looks at you. His ears move backward.

He doesn't say anything.

At the kitchen table, he reaches for your coffee mug. It shifts. Tips. Spills across the surface.

Large portions of his body dissolve. The kitchen wall is clearly visible through the space where his chest was. Then the gaps fill in, slowly, stars drifting back into position.

Sorry, he projects. Too much.

He drifts to the window. Stands in the sunlight. Doesn't flinch from it like he used to.

When you look at him, the light passes through easier than before.

You clean up the spill.

For the rest of the morning, he stays in the corners of rooms. When you sit on the couch, he hovers at the edge of the cushion instead of climbing on top of you.

You pat the space beside you.

He doesn't move.

You pat again.

He drifts closer. Attempts to sit. Sinks partially through the cushion before catching himself, concentrating hard until his form solidifies enough to rest on the surface.

His hoof finds your hand. Grips tight.

---

You come home from work. He's waiting by the door.

The cream wool around his head has faded. Through his body, you count the books on the shelf behind him. You've never been able to count them through him before.

He moves toward you. Reaches for you. His hooves pass through your shoulders.

He tries again. His whole body shudders with the effort. This time, his fingers catch your shirt.

He pulls himself against you. Buries his face in your neck. The wool that touches your chin feels like cobwebs.

Missed, he projects. Long.

At dinner, he sits across from you. Flickers. Disappears. Reappears.

His white eyes are wide each time he comes back.

Tired, he explains. Tomorrow better.

---

Tomorrow.

You can see your bedroom wall through his entire body. He still presses against your back while you make coffee. You feel almost nothing.

He practices with the cat figurine. Moves it an inch.

Then he's gone. Just a shimmer. A loose collection of dim stars where he stood.

Hours pass. You sit in the living room and wait. The shimmer doesn't move.

When he finally reforms, he's smaller. The wool has gaps. Through the holes, void shows beneath, but the void is thin too, more gray than black.

He crosses the room immediately. Presses against your side. His belly used to be soft and warm against you. Now you feel only a vague pressure, a suggestion of contact.

Here, he projects. Still here.

---

Three days. Rain on the windows.

The sheep sits beside you on the couch. Hovers. The cushion beneath him shows no depression.

Something washes over you. Your hands start shaking. Your eyes water.

Beside you, he flickers. Faster and faster. Stars pulse without rhythm. Pieces break away and don't come back.

Through the space where his chest was, you see every detail of the bookshelf. The titles on the spines. A small crack in the wood. Dust on the third shelf.

You reach for his shoulder. Your hand passes through.

The remaining stars pulse at the contact.

His hoof reaches for your hand. Passes through. Reaches again. Through. Again.

On the fourth attempt, his fingers close around yours. He grips so tight your knuckles ache.

Don't understand, he projects. Why.

---

Night.

He tries to lie beside you in bed. Sinks through the mattress. Tries again. Sinks.

He hovers above you instead. Close. You feel cool air on your face.

His eyes close. For a moment, his form steadies, loss color, clearer edges. Then his eyes open and find you, and the flickering starts again

His hoof keeps reaching for you. Passing through your arm. Your chest. Your face. Leaving trails of cold.

Sleep comes eventually. Your dreams are silent. Nothing there.

Before dawn, you wake. The sheep is in the far corner of the room. You have to squint to find him, a faint distortion, scattered points of dim light.

You sit up.

The distortion moves. The lights burn brighter for a moment. Almost a shape. Almost wool. Almost a round belly and inverted eyes and ears that used to perk up when you entered a room.

Then dimmer than before.

Morning, comes a thought, thin as smoke. Good morning.

---

He stays in the corner all day.

You eat lunch in the bedroom. Sit on the floor near him. Sometimes his form solidifies, wool visible, eyes watching you, mouth attempting something, and then it's gone again.

By evening, you find him by the cold spots in the air. By the occasional weak pulse of light.

Book? comes a thought from the corner.

You read aloud. Your voice is the only sound. In the corner, the shimmer pulses with each word.

Like, comes a response, barely there. Voice.

You keep reading until your throat hurts.

---

Hours later. The shimmer has moved to the bed. You're not sure how. You didn't see it happen.

You lie down. Something cold settles beside you. Tries to arrange itself. You feel a faint pressure against your back.

Can't, comes a thought, and something in your chest cracks.

You roll over. Face the shimmer. Reach toward it.

Your hand passes through cold air. The scattered stars pulse once at your touch.

Felt, comes the thought. You.

The shimmer presses closer. Passes through you. Presses again.

Thought forever, comes another thought, fragments barely holding together. With you.

Silence.

Not fair, comes a final thought, and then nothing for a long time.

---

Rain against the windows.

The couch. The TV murmuring. Beside you, barely anything at all.

A commercial plays. You reach for the remote. Something else reaches too, reflex, habit. For a moment, you see a hand extending toward the coffee table. Wool. The curve of a belly. A face.

Then gone. Stars scattering. Regrouping into almost nothing.

The shimmer drifts toward the bedroom. Hovers near the pillow. Moves back to the couch. Back to you.

Couch nice, comes a thought, distant.

Good plants, comes another, weaker.

The shimmer wavers. Pieces drift away.

Miss? comes a question.

Silence.

When gone, comes a clarification, barely forming. Miss?

You don't answer. You don't know how.

Okay, comes a thought. Wondering.

More silence.

The cold against your side pulses. A rhythm you recognize from nights when he held you. A heartbeat he learned from pressing against your chest.

Don't want, comes one more thought, trailing off before it finishes.

The shimmer moves closer. You feel cold against your side.

He stays there.

You stay there.

The rain continues. The TV murmurs. The light outside fades.

You sit together.