There had been so many things I wanted to say to Serena before I had lost both her and whatever semblance of a future we had dreamed of in what would have been our baby. To try and keep some kind of familial closeness even in death I had buried them side by side in unmarked graves, only their names blazoned on some kind of tombstone on where those memories were stored in my mind. The visualization of that fateful night left me nauseous, almost tasting bile of disgust â€" a taste I had nearly forgotten, and a feeling I had held off for the many years between that night, and the present one. Even though the memory had sprang from my mind like an illusion, engulfing both Serafina and myself, the metallic taste in my mouth was reinforced by the same prayer that had repeated itself in my head on a hook as I walked home from that burial... She wasn't real. The prayer and the metallic taste always arose after an illusion, allowing me to remember what reality felt like even if it had tumbled down onto me gracelessly this time. I hadn't spoken her name aloud in ... unmeasurable amounts of time. The name itself felt like a myth, something that didn't exist whether that was not now, or not ever. As the sights and sounds of home faded into the recess of the illusion, I put whatever sharp object had embedded itself in my hand down, needing the distraction of putting pressure on the wound to keep any other wounds from opening in that split second. When there was a dishtowel wrapped securely around my hand and I was sure I wasn't going to hit the ground in a fit of unconsciousness, I was able to see to it that my now nearly white-blue eyes rested on Serafina, fighting to exude something other than obscene despair.

The blonde woman looked to Davante pointedly as he said her name, though her expression failed to reveal any emotion further than sadness or a dutiful look, pointedly sighing as if his revelation wasn't boring exactly, but it wasn't groundbreaking. "Davante, now isn't the time. You've punished yourself enough... And you." The woman turned to Serafina, as if knowing she had moved away to give the pair a moment even if Davante wasn't privy to the ghost's whereabouts. "Do not be angry with him. It isn't exactly polite conversation to explain how a long, long past girlfriend died... He hasn't ever actually told anyone. Manners aside, stories can come later. But please, move.". And with that, the woman seemed to step into thin air, taking the baby with her.

When I found void instead of emotion, I found myself snatching the bottle of whiskey (was there something stronger?) that was close by in an attempt to pretend like that was going to soothe the hurricane that was beginning to spin. But perhaps the storm was more of a tornado, as I could see the wreckage already beginning in the frail hesitance lacing the young witch's movements. Her words were soft, but they were clearly wrought with some kind of disdain for what she'd seen; or at least that was the only way I was able to perceive them. Oh, it would have been a lot easier to "borrow" that bottle and flee Sera's home to roost somewhere else and wait out the meltdown that assuredly would sprout after the cyclone, but instead, her soft whisper of what Serena wanted from me... from us, was a command I wouldn't resist. The ghost of a woman I had loved existed solely to tell the woman I - ... Anger replaced the despairing ache in any part of me that wished I too could see her. The anger wasn't directed at anyone in particular, but it came from a mistress I hadn't spoken to in years... So many years. I hadn't felt the need to use my drug of choice in almost a decade, but Lord if there was one time I would wish to wash away remembrance of how I felt, it was now. Instead of being able to attain a substance to do such with, I followed Serafina with a level of tranquility and a docile nature that would be hard for me to ever replicate again,

Somehow, the darkness of Serafina's basement felt safe. I would have no words to explain that feeling, but it washed over me and I couldn't deny the certainty that -... Oh. The relief faded as the basement lights flickered on brightly, illuminating what I could only assume was the store room for whatever it was Serafina... wanted to put there. The scent of dried herbs all but scorched my nose, and the light easily made more than just my eyes hurt. The searing pain I felt at the buzz of the electricity in the basement as a testament to how strong that illusion had been, and potentially, how much harm it had done to me by existing. Unbidden, my Shadow detached itself from me, prancing around the wall to inspect every drying herb and every single thing that was down there with us, twirling almost, as it reached Serafina and gently touched her chin, as if to say 'chin up' to her, though it was something I hadn't seen. After heavy, heavy silence impregnated by my inability to sit down beside her, I found myself pacing the basement with adrenaline hitching itself in my throat, like I would need the extra energy to exert something or other. And when the panic seemed to wane, like perhaps the ghost was no longer there, I was able to give my attention back to the young woman sitting on the floor.

"Are you seriously trying to tell me there is a ghost in here? If so - ... Where the fuck is Bruce Willis and oh I don't know... Why didn't you tell me you could see dead people?!"

There was a trace of the man that Serafina had met behind those words, even if the Sixth Sense reference was probably out of line. Surprisingly, there was no true edge to my voice, only a lick of exhaustion and attempted humor. My eyes had slowly begun to find their normal blue, and as I lowered myself to the floor in front of her, I lifted a hand to gently touch her cheek as if to inspect her and make sure she hadn't acquired any physical damage, though I knew that the emotional damage was only beginning to bruise. My other hand remained wrapped in the towel and sitting limply in my lap, an unfortunate reminder of my dysphoric memories while the uninjured hand gently tucked hair behind her ear.

" ... Do you want to tell me why we're down here?" I asked tentatively though I stood to move away from her and shut the lights. When the hum of electricity stopped, I sighed in my audible relief, though what sounded like the roar of wind borrowed my attention to the top of the stairs, and I found my way back to Serafina, though my Shadow had beat me there to organize a handful of candles and waggle it's fingers over them, demanding the wicks to be lit and in an attempt to sate the ridiculous Shadow, I flicked my lighter out of my pocket and lit them so the candles could cast a leery glow over the room.

"Is this the part where you show me your Ouija board? Because I am not okay with conversing with ghosts," I mused softly, working with an immense amount of strength to keep any emotion regarding Serena... Away. "Any of them," I added, the emphasis an effort to show Serafina that while I would have given anything to speak to Serena one more time, there was a time and a place for that desire and it wasn't here.

It was with a cold burst that the spirits could find their way into the home, wandering aimlessly through the halls until the lights of the basement went out. Clustered at the door, their long spindle-like fingers attempted to pry beneath the obstacle, humming their desires quietly. The cold would be physically able to be felt by both witch and warlock, though the one spirit in particular was able to flatten itself and slide beneath the door and the floor to fluidly pour down the stairs and manifest in the darkness. He knew the masculine voice well, and upon finding the source, the spirit found himself swelling with emotion, his mutilated, broken face becoming visible in the darkness. Unable to speak or touch or move more, the Spirit began looming there with his cold, dead eyes resting harshly on the face of the brunette witch he knew could see him. In a swift moment, he was able to latch his hands onto the Shadow that had begun canoodling around with the dryng herbs, smelling each one before squirming, and before beginning to writhe in the hands of the ghost. The ghost knew it would only be seconds before Davante himself would feel it, and know just what being strangled felt like...