Qebhet wasn't sure what had moved her to ask Genesis along. A twinge of old guilt, maybe. Ever since Genesis had started working at the funeral home, she'd been making overtures of friendship, inviting Qebhet along to different events, and Qebhet never knew how to tell her that she couldn't. Even close to ninety years on, a club or a bar, anywhere that the music and babble drowned out individual voices or the crowd pressed close around... she couldn't. But she liked Genesis, and a walk in the sunshine held no such dread.
And... maybe she was in need of a little company today, too. Some conversation – normal, everyday talk – to keep her own worries at bay.
"Ten minutes," she agreed with a small smile.
There was a boy on the stoop across the way. Short, skinny, his clothes hanging far too loose on his frame. Qebhet had seen him there before, though they had never spoken. The first time she had smiled at him, he'd flinched away, and ever since he had met her gaze with a silent, wary stare.
Perhaps he couldn't speak. Some ghosts couldn't. The older ones especially: like gods, they eventually faded in the absence of memory or offering, losing form and substance until they were little more than a faint impression of emotion or anguish. This one felt old, several decades at the least. But his face was young behind the hollow cheeks and haunted eyes, and Qebhet could not help but thing of Vincent, of Ronan, of Kaden. She was still watching him when Genesis emerged.