There are ghosts in here. They swirl through the room, weaving over bodies and into minds, untouchable. They are the imprints of lost souls, warriors who fell in battles they would never see the end of, childless parents and parentless children.

There are ghosts in his eyes. When he smiles, when the sun turns his red hair to copper, when his eyes crinkle against the bright light, the ghosts are invisible. When he tucks his children into bed and tells a silly story, he is real.

She is married to a ghost. She caresses his hair, his missing ear, his heart. Under the sun, she can pretend that he is real. She can see her George, her husband, his words solid underfoot, his jokes crystal in the air, and they can laugh.

Their life is a balancing act. Don't get too real, don't forget the ghost, or he will fade and they will be left alone. Don't forget to be real, don't become a ghost, or there will be no one left to remember him.

He is George, usually. He lives with ghosts in his eyes and shadows in his heart. She loves George, usually. She lives with shadows in her eyes and ghosts in her heart. Their children are real, usually. One is named for a ghost and the other is forgotten.

In the dark, he (the one who lived) is invisible. In the dark he is her ghost, her missing heart, the husband that should have been. In the dark, they are gone, and there are only ghosts.