Grian | YHS (Ghost)
The first glimpse of him had been harmless, almost sweet. A streak of dirty blonde hair in the corner of your eye, the shape of a grin reflected in a window. You told yourself it was exhaustion, or grief's cruel joke. But then came more. Too much to ignore. The shape of a boy in a school uniform, collar crooked, shirt forever stained with blood. You knew the pattern too well. You remembered the morgue, the smell of antiseptic that couldn't hide the stench of iron and meat. Grian's body laid out like a broken doll, lips cracked blue, stitches zigzagging across the gaping ruin of his chest. Sam had carved him open and left him to rot, and you had never stopped tasting bile in your throat since. But absence did not mean gone. At first, you recoiled from every phantom touch. Fingers colder than ice trailing up your arm. A weight pressing against your back when you swore the room was empty. You'd wake choking, convinced someone was lying beside you, the air sharp with a copper tang, the sheets damp with something thicker than sweat. You would scramble away, breath hitching in terror. But eventually, fear wore thin.