Michael didn't see much of Andrew Guzman for about two weeks.

Lily, too, was quiet. She only appeared once every couple of days, usually just to ask one or two ambiguous questions before disappearing once more.

Michael searched the building for more ghosts, hoping to find something else to divert his attention with, and found nothing. The building's paranormal activity had nearly ceased. There were still those disembodied voices and footsteps, of course, and even flickers of visions, but those were only energy imprints. Not sentient. Meaning that even Michael couldn't do anything about them.

With so little to do around the apartment, he found himself working more than ever before. He finished all of Conway's articles and reports faster than he'd thought possible. His project backlog, too, was now empty.

Normally, when he had this little to do, he'd call his mother, but she was away at some paranormal conference. His sister was apparently too busy to keep him company just because he was bored. She didn't bother to invent any excuses, and he wasn't about to admit that he was lonely and had messed up, as he wasn't in the mood for one of her usual lectures.

Michael sighed and allowed his head to hit the surface of his desk. He had no choice but to face it now— he missed Andrew. The boy had clearly enjoyed Michael's company and had always gone out of his way to "run into" him. Andrew had always had a way of making Michael feel like he was doing some grand favor in so much as talking to him. But, at some point, that had begun to change. Michael had started checking his mail every day, and at the same time, on purpose. Because he knew that Andrew was shy about approaching him. He had started to look forward to those meetings.

Michael, for better or worse, considered Andrew a friend.

He didn't like thinking this way. He saw little point in wallowing in despair and staying stuck in one place. Michael groaned and stood up and left his apartment, making a beeline for the rooftop. Maybe he'd catch Andrew painting up there, as the boy had mentioned doing so from time to time ever since Michael had recommended it. It was at least worth a try, he thought.

"Mr. Mike?"

Lily's voice stopped him in his tracks. Michael turned to find her standing behind him, Molly the rabbit tucked under her arm and a resolved expression on her face. Something about her was different. He felt it in the air around her.

"Lily," he said, half word and half sigh of relief. "I was wondering where you had gone. I haven't seen much of you these days." His mouth settled into an unconscious frown. "...Did you need something?"

There was a long and heavy silence. Lily didn't avert her gaze.

"You told me to come and find you when I wanna leave. ...I'm ready to go to sleep now."

Michael was, honestly, surprised to hear those words for a moment. That feeling passed quickly. Lily was made of something stronger than him. It was no wonder that she'd been able to accept things so quickly. He nodded.

"I'm glad," he said, and he was mostly honest in saying so. "If you'd like, you can come to my apartment—"

"I don't want to be inside. That's where l died. I wanna look at the sky."

Michael nodded again, pursing his lips. It made sense, but his apartment was the easiest place to use, and performing a ceremony anywhere else could result in being seen by others. Despite his concerns, Lily's wishes had to come before anything else. He nodded for a third time, mostly to himself.

"...Alright, then. We'll use the roof. But I'll need to get some things from my apartment first."

Lily didn't seem to mind waiting and did so patiently. This came as little surprise— she'd been waiting, in some form or another, for decades. Michael returned to her with a worn leather tote bag and took her hand, and together, they walked to the roof.

There was a chill in the air, and the sun was concealed by clouds. Not the sort of warm welcome he would have liked, but he didn't get to choose such things.

"What's that for?" Lily asked, watching as Michael laid out a cloth blanket with something like a magic circle sewn into it. He gestured for her to sit down on it, and she obeyed.

"These are artifacts handed down in my family," he answered simply. "They'll help speed up this process and get you there safely."

Michael draped a little amulet around her neck. It was a small pouch, and it contained only a mineral rock, a dried and pressed flower, and a few tiny sprigs of various herbs tied together with a red thread. He lit a candle that he set down between them, crossed his legs, and wrapped a long string of beads around his hands.

"Do you always have to do all of this?" Lily asked, sounding slightly amused. Michael smiled as he shook his head.

"Not every time. Some people decide to leave on their own, for one thing. You need some help, and there's no shame in that. ...Other times, I'm in a hurry and don't have time to prepare all of this. Think of it as a formality."

It was, largely, a simple formality. The artifacts helped balance out and remove negative energies, just in case something went wrong, and kept both the seer and the spirit in the required state of calm and focus. Performing such a ritual sapped a great deal of Michael's spiritual energy, leaving him feeling lethargic for days, without the help of his family heirlooms. It wasn't impossible to help an especially troubled spirit pass on without them, but it was significantly more difficult. If he got to decide, he always used the family traditions.

Michael looked up at the sky. It was a dark slate-grey, like the promise of rain. He frowned at the sight of it. He didn't consider himself a superstitious man (as strange a thing as that was to say for a man who spent half of his life chasing ghosts), but he couldn't help but feel like that kind of sky was a bad omen. He couldn't afford to be distracted by such petty things, though. He cleared his head.

"...Lily. Close your eyes."

"Okay."

As soon as she obeyed, she started to glow. It was so soft that it was barely noticeable, but it was still a good sign. She really was ready.

"...Clear your mind. Don't think about anything but peaceful things. Think about what heaven will be like and let go of everything else."

"Okay."

Lily breathed deeply. It was easier said than done, of course, to let go of the kind of pain she'd endured. Even so, she was doing a remarkable job. Michael felt the negative energy leaving her and building up within him. It was an unpleasant sensation that he'd learned to like, somewhat, if only because he knew what it meant.

"Good. You're doing wonderfully. Keep thinking happy thoughts, and I'll say a prayer for you."

"...Okay."

Michael spoke his "prayer" very quietly. The proper term— the one his mother used— was mantra, but he'd always referred to it, when speaking aloud to spirits, as a prayer.

Every seer had their own mantra. It was something that existed only in their memories— such a deeply personal and sacred thing that to write it down or speak it to another living person was considered a great taboo. Michael had, since he was seven, had his own prayer, and it had changed very little with time.

It wasn't a prayer in that he was speaking to any specific god. A prayer, for Michael, was a plea into a selfish, senseless void and to whatever nameless beings oversaw it. It was a request for mercy directed at the shadowy figures he sometimes saw at night that didn't belong to any of the worlds he knew. It was a desperate cry for help, and it was all that he or anyone else had when facing down death itself.

The metaphorical doors to the layer beyond widened. Michael felt cold sweat bead his brow. He hadn't told Lily the truth about this old ritual and what it entailed. He was never honest with spirits about it. It was more than a simple helping hand— it was a transferral of energy. He was taking Lily's darkness from her and sifting through it. He was wading through a lake of anger and sadness and painful memories. The toll on his mind and immortal soul, if he were less careful and less experienced, could be devastating. He knew this. But this was the brand of ritual that he preferred, and he had his reasons.

He saw it. The fire. He bit his lip as he felt the brief physical sensation of Lily's death wash over him. And when that happened, he didn't just feel her anger— he understood it. In that moment, she was truly justified. And while she didn't know why, she felt that sense of acceptance, and it gave her resolve and peace of mind. That was how this ritual worked.

The pain came and passed like a chilly November wind. When it was through, Michael found himself— a spiritual projection of himself, anyway— standing beside Lily, her hand in his, her rabbit tucked beneath her other arm. They stood side by side before a darkened and hazy shape. It wasn't quite a door, but Michael knew that he couldn't enter. It wasn't yet time for him to do so.

"That's it, isn't it?"

"That's it. That's where heaven is."

Lily stared into that incomprehensible abyss for a moment before she looked up at Michael and smiled.

"Take care of Molly for me, okay?"

She handed over the rabbit. Michael cradled it gently, releasing her hand in the process, and made a noise of confirmation. Lily curtsied. Her smile widened.

"Goodbye, Mr. Mike. Thanks for everything!"

Michael waved, doing his best to return her smile.

"Farewell, Lily. It's been fun. ...Be at peace."

With that, she was gone. She skipped into the darkened haze, and her figure evaporated like fog.

In only a moment, it all came rushing back. The force of his soul being sucked back into his body and pulled away from the layer between worlds always sent a shock through his system that forced him to take a sharp gasp of air. Those first couple of seconds were like learning to breathe for the first time.

Sensation flooded back slowly as Michael's nerves learned how to feel again. He became aware, dully, of the sound of distant thunder, of the drop in temperature around him. The rain would start soon— the air was muddy with the feeling of it, and he could smell it.

Michael's other senses, the ones that most people didn't have, took longer to return and to adjust. As his sixth sense began to operate again, he could only detect a fuzzy something somewhere nearby. He slowly opened his eyes, seeing only the empty blanket and the stuffed rabbit before him, and furrowed his brow in confusion. What was—

"What the hell did you just do?"

Everything stopped. Michael could hear only his own heartbeat.

Michael's sixth sense functioned as something of a sonar ray, or perhaps as an invisible extra limb. He used it to scan the area around him at all times, like a blind man feeling around with his cane. It was how he was always able to sense Andrew's distinctive presence even when he wasn't looking in his direction.

What he had not realized, until this very moment, was that performing a traditional passage ritual forced all of his spiritual energy to be focused in one direction. Which left him vulnerable to being ambushed.

For the first time, Andrew had successfully snuck up on Michael. And he'd done it at the worst possible time.

"Andy."

It was the only thing that Michael could think to say in that moment. Like a reminder that they knew one another, that they were fond of one another. Or had been, anyway. Andrew shook his head, taking a fearful step back.

"Where did she go?!"

"She's alright, really. She's where she was meant to be—"

"What the hell does that mean?!"

Rain was coming. Michael instinctively collected his family's artifacts and shoved them back into his bag. Regardless of the circumstances, he couldn't let them get destroyed by the rain. He tried not to think about how badly he might have messed things up. When he'd finished, he took a deep breath.

"I'm... sorry that I couldn't tell you before," he began. "But I wasn't sure how you would react. Lily... wasn't supposed to be here. All that I did was help her pass on. To the other side."

"The other side," Andrew spat. "Like... heaven? The afterlife...?

Michael nodded.

"Precisely— see, she was meant to be there years ago, but she was trapped—"

"So you did kill her! You're admitting as much!"

Michael flinched at the unexpected ferocity in Andrew's voice. His face was even worse. An Andrew that was glaring and clenching his fists didn't look much like Andrew at all. Not the one that he'd gotten to know, anyway. Michael knew that he had to be careful. He had to be very careful. The sky grew darker, and there was a clap of rumbling thunder.

Michael took a long, deep breath and closed his eyes to steel his nerves. When his eyelids fluttered back open, he said it, and in as calm a voice as possible:

"I did not kill her, Andrew. I cannot kill something that is already dead."

Another thunderclap. Somehow, the deafening silence of Andrew's refusal to provide a response right away was louder, making the ominous sound a dull thump in Michael's ears. Andrew opened and closed his mouth several times as the first of the raindrops began to fall.

"...Dead? ...You're telling me Lily was dead?"

Andrew wasn't shouting. He was far too quiet. Michael gulped and nodded. There was a fear in his mind and a racing in his pulse that he had nearly forgotten.

"Yes. She was a spirit."

"But I asked you about that, and.... you specifically told me that you knew Lily wasn't a ghost."

There was a sharp and fleeting pain in Michael's chest. He had said that. He'd looked him directly in the eyes and said that.

"...I did. I lied to you. And I'm sorry, but... you're surprised, are you not? I thought that you weren't ready to know the truth. About her, or.... Or about you. I thought it would only hurt you. And I didn't want that. You know that I don't want to hurt you, don't you?"

Another long silence. Andrew occasionally swallowed and shook his head. If he'd been more alert, he would have noticed that the rain wasn't getting him or his clothing wet. That in and of itself would have been a clue to the truth behind Michael's words. But Andrew refused to accept it, and so he refused to notice something so miniscule.

"...You're wrong," he finally said. "You're wrong. I'm real, and I'm still alive, and I... I can prove it...!" There was an audible ache in Andrew's voice. It cracked, like the words had hurt his throat when they forced their way out. Michael frowned when he heard it. He didn't normally let himself get so worked up over these conversations. This one was different somehow. Andrew furiously shook his head one last time, and his gaze hardened. "I can prove it!"

Andrew turned and stomped angrily away, breaking into a sprint when he reached the dry safety of the stairwell. Michael blinked in surprise before his thoughts caught up with him. He gave chase. If Andrew intended to prove that he was alive, he surely meant for Michael to follow him, didn't he?

They arrived, together, at Andrew's apartment door. Michael was panting. Andrew was not. Andrew didn't technically have any lungs. If he didn't want to be troubled by something like breathing, he didn't have to be. He wouldn't feel a burn in his lungs if he had forgotten, in his purpose, that he was supposed to. His existence was one born of his own presumptions, observations, and subconscious denials. That was the strange reality of cold walkers.

It took Andrew several angry tries to successfully get his door open. He didn't invite Michael in, but he didn't slam the door, either. Michael carefully closed and locked it behind them, fearful of what Andrew had planned. Andrew made a beeline for a specific drawer in his desk and retrieved a photograph and what looked like a cheap, disposable cell phone. The kind that people only used if they thought they might need a new number without much warning. The kind that criminals and people in hiding used.

"Look." Andrew practically shoved the photograph into Michael's chest. "See? That's my sister."

Andrew didn't have to point at the photo to make Michael understand who he was referring to. They were nearly identical. Twins. The only real visible difference between them in the photo was that the sister wore makeup and had long hair.

"She's pretty," Michael said without putting too much thought into it. It was what you were supposed to say when shown a picture of someone's mother or sister, wasn't it? He realized only after saying it that it might make Andrew angry or embarrass him. Seeing as they were identical. Sure enough, Andrew snatched the picture back.

"Her name is Maria," Andrew confidently declared. In his stubbornness and anger, he'd retrieved a little bit of memory. He hadn't remembered her name before. "A-And I... I know her phone number. I can call her, and she'll tell you. She'll tell you that I'm not dead!"

Michael shook his head. He took a step closer to Andrew, hoping to steal the phone away, but Andrew saw it coming and stepped back.

"Andy, don't do this. You won't get what you want. You remember what happened with my camera, don't you?" He tried to keep his voice calm, and he failed. Andrew surely heard the panic in his tone. The situation was quickly escalating into something that Michael could no longer control.

"Quiet!" Andrew hissed.

He dialed the number.

It rang several times— enough that Michael thought they might be spared, and that she would not answer. Maria did answer, though, and just before the call would have gone to her voicemail. The sinking feeling in Michael's gut was magnified by the way that she greeted her caller. Her voice was angry and annoyed. Michael couldn't understand her, but he had a feeling that what he was hearing was not a warm greeting directed at a sibling.

"Maria, it's me! Andy! You remember, don't you?!"

Maria did not verify whether or not she did remember. This was because she did not and could not hear him. She spoke over him, her voice growing louder with each phrase, until Andrew seemed to give up and stopped speaking. She shouted one last thing before the call came to an abrupt end.

"...What did she say? I don't speak Spanish," Michael prodded as gently as he could. Andrew stared at the floor, his mouth slightly ajar and his eyes flickering back and forth. The phone fell uselessly from his hand and clattered on the creaky hardwood. Michael didn't wince. He'd expected that much in terms of a reaction.

"She... said she doesn't like pranks."

Andrew's words were so quiet that Michael could barely detect them. It hurt. Andrew had something eerily similar only two weeks ago. Michael couldn't think of what to say. Somehow everything he could think of seemed insulting or trite. But maybe that's always been true, an unfamiliar voice in the back of his head said. Maybe you're condescending. Maybe everyone else wishes you would stop giving them your unsolicited advice. Who died and made you God, anyway? Why do you always assume that you can fix everything?

Michael felt his muscles tense. The thoughts invading his head were pessimistic and cruel— very much unlike him. There was a sinister feeling to them, both in message and the tone in which they were spoken, like someone else had somehow intruded into his own consciousness. It was an unsettling feeling that he didn't have the words to describe.

He'd felt it before. He'd felt it only once. And he had barely survived.

"...Andy? I-I understand that this may be difficult to accept, but—"

"If I'm dead, then what exactly does that make you?"

Andrew finally spoke up. He finally lifted his head and met Michael's eyes. His face was devoid of expression save for the unnatural wideness of his eyes. His voice was low. The room was cold. Michael did not detect the transition in temperature. He couldn't pinpoint the moment that it had become cold. It was not cold, and then it was, as simply as that. He chose to ignore that in favor of focusing on Andrew's question. As frightening as it had sounded.

"What does that... make me? ...I'm not sure what you—"

Andrew's hand shot out and gripped Michael's forearm. The touch wasn't violent, and he did not yet squeeze, but Michael inhaled a sharp gasp of breath. He feared the possible consequences of forcefully pulling away. He feared the possible consequences of remaining still. These thoughts conflicted with themselves in his mind over a deafening hum of negative and unfamiliar ones. He did nothing.

"You don't seem to have any trouble seeing me. You talk to me all the time, right? I shouldn't be able to do this, right?!"

"...That's—"

"But how? That means you knew, didn't you?!"

"Andy, please let go of me."

"Y-You knew something was wrong with me!"

"Andrew, let go!"

"You knew, but you— you came over for dinner and complimented my paintings and let me into your apartment like nothing was wrong—"

"Only because I didn't want—"

Andrew's hand tightened. Michael shook his head. It was useless. It was too late to jerk the limb back.

"Months! You've talked to me for months! Every single fucking day! B-But you never..." Andrew's voice, which had slowly risen in volume until it had become a screech, broke off with a choke as tears began to stream down his face. His eyes remained wide and frenzied. His grip tightened until it felt like a vice. A literal death grip. "You never told me why! Why did this happen?! What am I supposed to do?! Tell me, Michael, tell me!"

With that, Andrew's words became nearly unintelligible. Michael's own thoughts finally came back to him, louder than the other ones that he didn't recognize as his own.

"Andrew, I-I'm warning you—"

Michael tried to be assertive, tried to sound commanding enough that Andrew might listen. The tremor in his voice betrayed him again. The color in Andrew's eyes was fading into a dull and lifeless grey.

"I-I'm scared!"

It happened so quickly that Michael didn't have time to mentally register it until it had passed. Andrew's fingers dug into his arm enough to send a sharp pain through his tender skin. He screamed something, and there was a flash of cracking blue light and the room turned dark for a split second. Michael recalled in vivid detail the worst day of his life, and he recalled how he would have died if his mother hadn't shown up when she did. The flash of light concentrated itself in Andrew's hand. Michael let out a cry of pain, and at that, Andrew suddenly let go. He stepped back as if in a daze, startled out of his rage. Michael took the opportunity and reached into his pocket, numb fingers deftly locating the tin box that he always kept there, until he had it in his grasp, clinging like the little box was life itself.

"S-Sunt—" He paused to recall the words of his own command. They were words he'd said a thousand times over under his breath, in the dark of night, when he had first memorized them. Words so significant, so full of meaning, that they may as well have been tattooed on his tongue. Even words as familiar as those escaped him for an alarming second. "Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt."

One swift throw was all it took. A powder scattered in the air. Andrew coughed and withdrew from it, concealing his mouth and nose in his sleeve. Michael retreated to a safe distance, armed and prepared for a second throw if need be.

One "dosage", it seemed, had been enough. When Andrew finished coughing, he looked up and blinked several times as if his eyes were readjusting to the light. Their rich, warm brown had returned, and the malice and terror was gone. The room wasn't cold or dark anymore.

Andy. He was safe.

"What... What was that?! Why'd you throw salt at me?!"

Michael grabbed hold of Andrew by the shoulders. He did not seize him. He touched him as if only to verify that he was still there, that he wouldn't recoil.

"Andy. Are you alright? Do you feel strange?"

"Wh-What happened to your arm?!"

Andrew's eyes were fixed on Michael's forearm— the spot where his hand had been squeezing the life from him only moments ago. Already, the skin was darkening in color, the ivory tone stained with unnaturally-colored and angry blotches.

"That's not important right now. I need you to answer—" Michael paused to hiss through his teeth. The onset of pain was even faster than he remembered it being. "Just tell me. Do you feel like yourself?"

"I-I mean... Sure, I guess," Andrew answered, sounding even more confused than he had before. "Not that that means anything, seeing as I apparently don't exist." He frowned. Michael let go of him.

"Are you angry?"

"Wha— what kind of a question is that?! Of course I'm angry! None of this makes any sense, and I don't understand, and it just... isn't fair!"

"But you don't want to hurt anyone, do you?"

"Of course not!" Andrew sounded offended that Michael would even ask such a question. "I don't hurt people! ...Wait, what are we doing in here? Weren't we on the roof? ...There's salt everywhere..."

Andrew grumbled that last bit and kicked a few of the grains with his foot. Michael released a long sigh of relief and pushed his hair off of his sweaty forehead. The stiffness of his frame gave way and allowed him to hunch over. The effort of standing was quickly becoming too much.

"So you didn't mean it," he huffed. "It wasn't your fault. ...You really don't remember anything from the last several minutes?"

That much was standard. When a spirit started to go dark, they did truly lose themselves. The Andrew that had released that flash of negative energy was a different one. And, hopefully, one that would never return.

"I-I remember you telling me that I'm dead. And I remember seeing Lily... She..." Andrew couldn't finish that sentence. He probably couldn't think of the right word. She had not died. She'd already been dead.

"She passed on. Right. That... Hold on a moment."

Michael really couldn't put off the task of calling in backup, and the pain that had already reached his shoulder was evidence enough of that. He gestured at Andrew to wait as he pulled out his own cell phone and dialed the number to his home.

"Michael? Are you... Are you okay?" Andrew asked in a timid whisper. Michael gave him another gesture, this one a vague don't worry about it, or perhaps I'll explain later.

The phone rang twice before it clicked.

"Mikey? Whaddya want?"

"Izzy." Michael tried not to sound disappointed, but he'd expected his mother to answer. "Is mom there? I-I'm in a bit of a bind and could use her help."

"I already told you— she's at that conference!" Michael could hear dishes clattering in the background and a sink running. His sister sounded busy.

"I-I... forgot. My apologies. I... don't want to bother you if you're—"

"Hang on." The noise came to a stop, and Isabelle's tone immediately changed from irritated to concerned. "You sound like you're in pain or somethin'. What happened? Do I needta go over there?"

"If you don't mind. Bring the emergency kit. Y-You know... the family one?"

Michael heard Isabelle gasp. He knew what her face looked like without having to see her.

"What did you do?!"

Michael closed his eyes, filled his lungs with air, and allowed the totality of the situation to settle around him. It was going to be a long afternoon. There was no escaping it.

"...I'm afraid I've come down with a case of the chills."

A/N: michael's non-english phrase is in latin and comes from virgil's aenid. it translates most literally to "there are tears for things and mortal things touch the mind." his reasons for using this particular "protective command" will be explained in the future.
in the meantime, prepare yourselves! izzy is coming.