There are nights when he knows he isn't alone.
During these times, Byakuya lies in bed, motionless, staring at the ceiling. Counting the cracks. The shadows are deepest at the corners of his bedroom, climbing the walls and coloring them strange, violet hues. They move. They oscillate. They whisper.
They whisper dark, horrible things, words like spiders on his skin. He sometimes can't distinguish their voices from the voice of his own thoughts; the voice of her, hoarse with death.
The dead can't haunt the dead. But she's found a way, and Hisana is relentless. Her words spatter against the walls like ink. Her fingers, whittled to the bones, stroke through his hair, run down his cheek. Byakuya breathes in as slowly as he can, and when he exhales, it comes as frozen mists before his lips.
She's there, between the dark spaces, the ones he can only see from the corner of one eye. She watches him. Byakuya thinks he's going insane.
She watches from the dark spaces.