For longer than she would have liked them to, her eyes remained transfixed on no particular detail or edge of his illuminated mausoleum here, in the harsh light of the kitchen. A few times the breath inspired to let the boat of her words set sail was lodged in her throat by the garrote wire of being out of the habit of explaining. Of course, she was juggling the thought of ghosts... her mother, her father... her life was scattered with the gray, hot ash of dead souls.
Why was it she saw unearthly things? No spirits.
"Nothing..." the word was a little white lie, intersecting her bare forearms across the sepulcher of her narrow torso as if to preserve a warmth she hardly felt any longer. Why was she being so stubborn? The lack of sleep loosened her tongue, sinking the ship. She explained finally. "My dad."