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locked up forever in a shadow stricken house no memory why afraid of the light unworthy of redemption clinging to old sins a small sorrow stands silent behind dark curtains afraid to look out sad faceless spirit misplaced between time's edges forever haunted midnight moonlight weighs down the dust on window sills silent grains falling in the dark corners carefully built towers fall pride of ghosts laid low velocity of the moon wears away small flecks of time lost in the darkness starting once again the why is still forgotten deep in an old house being a ghost is a sketchy occupation

Oranib sits cross-legged on stiff, dead grass that would be itching her legs if she still had skin. Her skeletal hands are on her lap, cupping a single, almond-shaped seed that clacks softly against fingers of bone. Slender vines curl around these fingers and spiral up her arms like green veins, and larger ones scale her legs and feet. The inside of her ribcage is far more lively, filled with a complex network of vine tendrils. Flat leaves spring forth from the thickest of these, and from the largest vine blooms a flower with many lavender petals. In great contrast to the life that Oranib houses, the world around her appears to be dying. In the distance is the husk of a former city. Many of the buildings and much of the road there have been reduced to rubble, and skyscrapers appear to have had their top halves torn off by massive hands. The lucky ones have most of their windows shattered and cracks spiderwebbing through their stone. Perhaps this world has already died once. Beneath