A Halloween hangover was not the most wonderful feeling in the world, Kit had decided on the first of the new month. Even when that hangover was long gone, however, she came to the conclusion that it wasn't the alcohol that had been the problem. It was the mystery she'd been left with.

She had a distinct recollection of a man in military uniform, who had stayed long past time when everyone else had staggered home, and told her the history of the old house her grandmother had left to her. All she knew about him was that his name was Randal, and that she thought she might have agreed to his visiting her the way he had her grandmother when the old woman was alive. Sober, she realized how odd that was. But there had been no sign of him over the past weeks since the Halloween party, and she had thrown herself into thoroughly cleaning out the house, making it habitable for herself.

It was on her exploration of the attic that things had started to get a little weird. She'd come across an old wooden box, filled with letters and old photographs from a bygone era. The letters seemed to bear out the story Randal had told her, about the soldier who had loved his wife deeply, only to return home from the trenches of the First World War to find her gone. But the surprise had come when she had looked at the pictures themselves. In each one, she saw someone who looked an awful lot like her mysterious stranger. As a teen, as a young man, in the same military uniform worn at Halloween, and written on the back of that official photograph, a name. Captain Randal Thomas Nichols, 1917.

She'd stared at the picture for a very long time. Was the Randal she had met a relative, perhaps, someone who felt a connection with this old house and had befriended her grandmother because of it' The questions had plagued her for days before she had finally taken herself down to the library to try and solve her mystery. What she found there led her to one conclusion, a conclusion that seemed utterly absurd. But there was only one way to find out.

Again, it took her a day or so to work up the courage to test her theory, finally choosing to do so in her studio, surrounded by her work and the accoutrements of her trade, where she felt most secure. She swallowed, leaning a hand against the lathe, and sighed softly. "I feel like an idiot," she muttered, but finally raised her voice. "Randal, I know you're here. Are you going to stop lurking and let me see you again?"

Whatever it was she thought or was hoping would happen didn't. No one answered her summons. There was no ghostly appearance; no strange noises or voices or footsteps; no pockets of chilly air or frosty breath; no rattling of windows, no strange smells - absolutely nothing but silence, and the usual creaking of walls and floors that accompanied any old house such as this one. Despite all the stories and rumors, there was no sign at all that the house was haunted, leaving the whole thing a mystery to be solved or forgotten.

Kit stared into space for a good ten minutes, waiting expectantly for ....nothing. She sighed heavily, rolling her eyes. "Fine, I'm insane," she conceded, shaking her head as she turned back to her work. "Clearly completely and utterly insane. Ghosts ....I really need to get laid."

She had no sooner spoken those words when a thump sounded behind her, followed by the almost eerie but strangely beautiful mechanical sound that could only come from one source - an antique music box. The melody was haunting but lovely and terribly old fashioned, like a small miniature piano that played all on its own. It was nothing short of a miracle that it still worked after all these years.

It was just as well she hadn't put her blade to the wood, or Kit might well have undone months of hard work with one very impressive jump. She froze on the spot, her heart thumping wildly in her chest, finally forcing herself to turn around as the haunting melody rang in her ears. Holding her work blade like a weapon, she inched around in a circle, letting her eyes dart back and forth as she sought out the source of the music. And there it was - a beautiful, antique music box, playing out its melody. It truly was a lovely piece of woodworking, to her expert eyes, in what she guessed was walnut. The grain of the wood was almost marbled, highly polished, hinges in brass set in the wood betraying that it opened somehow.

"Okay ..." Kit took a deep breath, a little ashamed of herself for how shaken it sounded in the quiet, and eased herself down onto her knees, one hand hesitantly reaching out to touch the smooth lid of the box. "Randal ....scaring the hell out of me is not funny," she informed the empty air around her, raising the box to eye level. A very faint smile flickered on her face, though. "It is beautiful. Thank you." She had no idea if she really was talking to a ghost called Randal, but it made her feel better, anyway.

Again, no sound or voice or presence responded to her words, at least, not that could be noticed, except for the very faint scent of what smelled like it might be men's cologne, but it was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. Other than that, the house was quiet.

She knew that scent, though. She had buried her face in his neck on Halloween, and some part of her had memorized the smell of him, no matter how drunk she had been at the time. A faint blush rose on her cheeks at the memory of how forward she had been that night, knowing what she knew now about his era. Rising to her feet, she looked around for a long moment, as though expecting to see him, hugging the beautiful antique to her chest. She let out a soft snort of laughter. "I'm losing my mind," she murmured to herself, turning to set the music box down and go back to her work, fully intending to spend at least a few hours on it.

Nothing else unusual happened for the remainder of the afternoon. The house was quiet, almost too quiet. Quiet enough to make her doubt the stories of ghosts and hauntings and tragedy, despite what she had learned about the history of the house and those who'd lived there.

A few hours of work, and the ghost stories had gone out of her mind, forgotten as she lost herself in her carving and polishing, slowly but surely bringing her commission to a natural end as the faces stepped out of the teal under her hands. When she finally looked out through the window, it was dark, and had been for some time. Stretching with a crack, Kit forced herself to leave the studio, wandering toward the kitchen with a vague idea to find something to eat. She shook her head, laughing to herself as she bent to look into the refrigerator. "Ghosts," she murmured, rolling her eyes. "That's one hell of a story to convince yourself of just because the one guy you've liked in a couple of years didn't call or leave his number."

Thump went something behind her again, as a couple of cookbooks stacked neatly on the counter fell over, seemingly all by themselves.

It was quiet inside the room and dark, moonlight streaming in through the windows casting an eerie silvery glow across the room illuminating the mantle with its small collection of half-burned candles and faded photographs in brass picture frames surrounding a mantle clock that had long since stopped ticking as no one had bothered to wind it. A few chairs stood near a small round table not far from the fireplace, bare and empty and lonely lonely, as if they had not been occupied in a very long time. But it was what stood in the center of the space that drew the eye, covered as it was in an old white cloth of some sort, possibly a sheet to keep the dust from collecting there. Several old paintings lined the walls, carefully placed over the antique wallpaper. Even the drapes seemed old, at least in design, as if someone had tried to keep this room just as it had been many years ago.

As she crept inside, Kit felt her fear begin to subside, replaced by a pall of sadness that cut deep into her heart. Setting the knife down on the table, she walked the walls of the room, letting her fingertips run over the antique wallpaper, her gaze wandering over the moonlit paintings as she passed them. Her hand touched against the covered piece at the center of the room, one silent tear dripping from her chin to stain the white cloth with salt-water. Very gently, she drew the dust sheet back, smoothing her fingers over the lid of the old piano as she sank down on one side of the wide seat that lay before it. She remembered this room now ....this was where her grandmother had taught her how to play this instrument, tutoring her tiny fingers to learn the keys. It had been many years since she had played, but still she remembered this room, this piano. Why, then, did it make her so sad"

The piano, such as it was, was a real treasure, and though obviously neglected for some years, the dark mahogany still shone with a warm gleam. Someone had taken the time to care for it for some reason, most likely her grandmother. Perhaps she'd seen the beauty in it or perhaps she, too, had felt some connection to the tragedy that had befallen this house. Perhaps she had sensed the need to pass along the gift of music that had once filled this house with happiness to another generation and so she'd taught her grand-daughter to play all those years ago.

Gently, Kit raised the lid, stroking her fingers over the ivory keys. She pressed down, braced for some painful note wildly out of tune, and started in surprise when a clear, perfect C rang out. Amazement crossed her expression. "How are you still in tune?" she whispered, as though the piano might be able to answer her, certain that the piece should have been dreadfully in need of tuning at the very least. But hearing that one note made her smile, drawing her fingers over the keys to slowly begin playing the tune that rose to her fingertips.

As she played, the house itself seemed to respond, the heaviness in the air lightening, the chill fading. The room itself seemed brighter, despite the only light that of the moonlight shining through the windows. The house almost seemed to sigh with relief and with gladness, as if a heavy, tragic load had been lifted. Playing on, her confidence growing, the music growing stronger, she felt a strange prickle at her back, as though someone was nearby, watching silently and secretly, until she felt that odd breeze again, cold but not as icy as before. A shadow appeared in of the corner of her eye, and suddenly, there stood the outline of a man, his back turned to her, facing the window as if he was gazing out, watching and waiting for someone or something, or perhaps only deep in thought.

The feeling of someone in the room with her send a fresh shiver down her spine, but this time there was no fear to go with it. The melody began to fade, Grieg's haunting opus fading naturally beneath her fingers as she raised her head, her eyes focusing on the man who seemed to have appeared as if from nowhere, outlined in shadow by the moonlight that poured through the window. As the last notes faded, she sighed softly, stroking her fingers over the ivory keys once again. "Nana loved this piano," she said very softly. "Why didn't I remember that until just now?"

"It was a long time ago, Kit. You were only a child then. Perhaps it took seeing the piano again for you to remember it," the man replied, his voice familiar with that same deep tone, that same decidedly English accent. He kept his back to her for a long moment, the moonlight almost seeming to shine through him, as if he was made of nothing but light and shadow, without substance or real form.

She was quiet for what seemed an age, raising her eyes to look at him as she absorbed the confirmation of her suspicions. He really was a ghost, as insubstantial as a breath. The first man she had felt any kind of connection to in years, and he'd been dead for almost a century. She felt her throat tighten, forcing herself not to cry at the injustice of it all by sheer will power. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?" he asked as he slowly turned to face her. There was a sad expression visible on his face, even from across the room. "That I've been dead for almost a hundred years" That my soul is cursed to haunt this place" Would you have even believed me" Would you have run away terrified into the night?" he asked, from where he stood near the window. He seemed unchanged, exactly the same as the man she'd met on Halloween night, never changing, always the same as he was the night he died.

"I'm not as delicate as you seem to think I am, Randal," she told him softly, rising to stand in front of him. "Of course I wouldn't have believed you, but I wouldn't have been quite so unnerved when I found those pictures. Was it really necessary to scare me so much tonight?"

"Scare you?" he echoed, as if he didn't quite understand what it was she was asking him, or perhaps he didn't understand what he'd done or how it had affected her. "You seem to think I am in control of all this. I can assure you I have very little control over what happens in this house."

She bit her lip, uncertainty flaring in her eyes as she hugged her arms about herself. "Is there someone else here?" she asked him quietly, not entirely sure she really wanted to know the answer. "I heard footsteps, and doors slamming, and someone playing Debussy. And I heard someone crying. Was that you?"

"Debussy?" he echoed, looking clearly alarmed. Whatever it was that had drawn him there - or perhaps had drawn them both there - he seemed unaware of it, or at least, unaware of what had happened before he'd appeared in the room. His gaze darted to the piano, a flood of memories coming to the surface. "I haven't played Debussy in years." And that was an understatement.

He was unaware of what else she'd found there or that her grandmother had written a piece of music for his late wife, as well. He had no way of knowing what had ever become of his lovely wife, nor had he ever thought to ask. "Will you play it for me?" he asked, almost tentatively.

Shuffling back to the piece that had been written for him, Kit considered his request thoughtfully. "I, um, I'll have to turn a light on," she said, reluctant to illuminate the room with the harshness of the electric bulbs but unable to read the music without it.

He nodded his head again to indicate he understood. The light would make it a little harder for him to remain in this form, but at least, she'd given him some warning. He moved over to a chair near the fireplace and settled himself upon it, though it was a mystery how he remained seated and didn't merely pass through the chair. Perhaps it was merely force of will.

She didn't turn on the main light, somehow realizing that the artificial light given off by the electric bulbs throughout the house must have some detrimental effect on his ability to be seen. Instead, she moved to the piano, to where one lamp stood nearby, shifting it over to sit on the piano itself to give her the light she needed. It had been a long time since she'd played anything at first reading, worried that she might not do the piece justice as she stroked her fingers over the ivories once again.

Taking a deep breath, she pressed down, and the first haunting strains in the opening minor key began to fill the room. The melody was gentle, sad, evoking a sense of loneliness that cut deep as she played, yet underneath it was an oddly fitting roll of hopeful chords. Slowly, as the piece moved on, the minor key transformed into a major, the sense of haunting loss falling from the music to be filled instead with the hope that was its underlying theme. It became a joyful piece, this time undercut by the minor key's chords, gently drawing itself to a quiet end. The music seemed to ask a question, though Kit couldn't have guessed what that question might be.

Even Randal was not quite sure what question the music might be asking, though he found the song strangely haunting, but at the same time hopeful. Though a heart no longer beat inside his chest, he found the music stirring, moving him emotionally. One did not need a body to feel emotions, though he was incapable of tears. He studied her silently while she played, touched by the gentleness he had sensed in her upon their first meeting. There was much of her grandmother inside her and for that he was glad. He could not help but feel lonely, grateful for whatever little companionship she was willing to offer. As she played on, his thoughts drifted to the tragedy of the past that had made him a prisoner of his own fate. The song seemed to hint at a resolution, but he had no idea what that resolution might be.

She sat quietly at the piano for a long moment, moving her fingers over the keys in the major chords that had underpinned the haunting opening of the piece. She knew that sequence from somewhere, it was familiar to her. She just couldn't quite remember ....When it came to her, it was a shock that almost seemed to slap her in the face. "That's my song," she heard herself declare in amazement, wondering suddenly just why a piece of music written for Randal would contain the melody of the piece her grandmother had written for her, years before.

His gaze had wandered back to the window, where he watched the night grow darker as the moon slowly traversed the sky, more than a little lost in thought, only glancing back when she had finished playing, drawn by both her voice and the ending of the song. "Your song?" he echoed, more puzzled than she was. "Ah," he continued, suddenly realizing why part of the song had seemed familiar, but why would her grandmother incorporate part of her song into his" She couldn't have known that Kit would one come back here and meet him again, at long last, could she" Or had she planned it that way' "I thought it sounded familiar."

She raised her head, looking over at him in confusion. "Why would she recycle a theme she wrote for me when I was child, in a piece that is so uniquely yours?" she asked, truly befuddled by the curious decision.

"Your grandmother had a gift for music. It seems she passed that gift on to you," he interjected with a smile that softened his features and almost warmed his blue eyes before pausing to consider her question. "Your grandmother was a romantic, Kit. Perhaps she thought you could help me in some way."

His smile brought an echo of the expression to her own face before she could stop it, the warmth shown for just a moment in his eyes enough to remind her of the warmth of his lips against her on All Hallow's Eve. She swallowed, blushing, and looked down at the piano keys once again. "I don't have a gift for music," she argued gently. "I learned because she wanted me to. I don't think she ever really approved of my woodworking, but she always supported my decisions. Maybe she thought we'd be good for each other. Or maybe she just didn't want you to be lonely after she was gone."

He remembered that kiss as well as she. Though he could not know she was thinking of it at the moment, her blush was enough to make him wonder. "Perhaps," he replied thoughtfully, though he wasn't sure why she should care so much about him, except that they'd become friends. "Perhaps she thought you could break the curse somehow," he suggested with a light shrug of his uniformed shoulders, though he thought it was more than likely only wishful thinking. His soul was cursed, damned to be linked to the place of his death forevermore, or until he could bring himself to forgive himself and the lovely Isabelle and at last find some peace.

Tenderly closing the lid of the piano, Kit leaned forward onto it, her eyes on Randal with a faint smile. She didn't pretend to understand any of this; not even truly understand why she hadn't run screaming from the house the moment things had turned slightly Twilight Zone on her. "What is the curse?" she asked him quietly. "Maybe there's a way it can be broken, so you can rest."

"I'm sure you've read enough of my history by now to know that I took my own life. That did not bode well for me in the afterlife, I suppose. I know how the story goes. I know what?s said about me, about this house, but it is not entirely true. It was not just Isabelle's betrayal that drove me to it," he explained, linking his fingers together and resting his hands against his chest.

She twisted where she sat, turning to face him, as interested in his explanation as she was to know if there really was a way to help him somehow. "You said something about not being able to cope with the horrors you saw at the front," she said quietly, proving that, for all she had been drunk, she remembered every word he had said to her.

"Yes," he replied, his lips forming a thin line as he contemplated it and how much to tell her. "I have no words to describe that horror. Watching as your friends are cut down all around you, blown to bits. The lucky ones die quickly. I will not share those memories with you. No one should have to see what I've seen. It's a horrible thing to kill a man, Kit, but to watch your friends dying all around you is far, far worse."

Kit frowned a little, confused by this offering. "What do you mean?" she asked him. "She can't have talked about me that much. And to be honest, I imagine you've seen more of me than she ever did once I was over five."

"She was rather fond of you, Kit. Why do you think she left you this house?" And it wasn't just the obvious - because she was the last one left to pass it down to. "She trusted you, even more than she trusted her own daughter. She would have never left this house to your mother. Your mother would have sold it without a thought."

"Oh god, don't remind me," she groaned softly. "Mum keeps calling to ask me when I'm going to sell the house." She rolled her eyes, shaking her head at her mother's irrational hatred of the beautiful home. "She just doesn't seem to understand how at home I feel here. Like Nana, I suppose. That makes me curious, though. What is it about Mum you don't like?"

"I rather think that's the other way around. I appeared to her once, your mother. She screamed her fool head off." He sighed, frowning again. "My mistake. I really shouldn't have assumed she was like your grandmother. I suppose it is a little unsettling to have a conversation with the dead, but your grandmother never complained. In fact, she seemed to welcome the company, especially since she'd had no sons of her own."

Kit shook her head, sighing softly. "She almost had a son," she said quietly. "I don't know if you ever knew the full details, but, um, she was pregnant when my grandfather died. I never knew him. The shock must have been awful, because she miscarried, and it was a boy. He would have been my mum's little brother."

"Perhaps that is why she took so well to me," he mused quietly, wondering why her grandmother had never seen fit to tell him that. Perhaps she didn't want him to feel strange or to think she might be trying to replace the son she'd lost. And yet, he was far too old to have ever been her son, as least, as far as the counting of years was concerned.

"Maybe," she mused thoughtfully. "Or perhaps she just felt better knowing there was a man in the house, even if to the rest of the world she was a widowed mother." She shrugged once again, tucking her hair back behind her ear. "But come on, what did you mean when you said you used to think you knew all about me" Is my bathroom routine that worrying?"

He looked a little lost in thought a moment, still contemplating the possibility that Kit's grandmother had thought of him as a son. It seemed almost unbelievable, and yet, in a way, it made sense. "Hmm?" he asked, drawn out of his ruminations but her question. "Your bathroom routine?" he echoed, puzzled.

She giggled gently. "It's a common joke these days," she told him. "That men do only what they need to do in the bathroom, whereas women spend hours in there and come out looking exactly the same as they did when they went in. And you're avoiding the question."

"I'm not quite sure how to answer it. And you never explained what GCSEs are," he countered, perhaps in an attempt to change the subject. "Do you know any Mozart?" he asked out of the blue, shifting in the chair as if he was trying to get comfortable, though he lacked a physical body.

"GCSEs are the examinations you take at sixteen," she explained promptly, obliging him with the answer just to see if having a straight answer to a straight question would make him squirm at all. "They're the basis for all the qualifications you then go on to achieve academically." She chuckled - having failed all of hers, she had worked in McDonalds for four years until finally managing to sell something she had made. "I know a little Mozart, but I've always found him too challenging."

"Shame," he remarked with a small sigh. "I should have played you some Mozart that night. Or perhaps you would have preferred Joplin," he said, conveniently still avoiding her earlier question. "Surely, you don't need any academics to succeed as an artist, Kit," he went on to say, backtracking to the previous topic.

She laughed at his offer to play Joplin, shaking her head. "No, I don't need academic qualifications, but it's taken a lot of effort to get my head around my finances," she admitted ruefully. "I was never very good at maths, and my accounts give me a headache."

Not exactly an offer, as he could no longer play - or if he could, it was very difficult, bordering on the impossible. "Perhaps I can help you with that," he remarked, thoughtfully - and in more ways than one, but once again, he didn't explain quite what he meant by that. "You are good at art, though. There is passion in your work."

Kit shrugged again, a little too modest to make much of herself in the industry she had entered. "I just listen to what the wood tells me," she tried to explain. "It knows what?s inside waiting to be carved. You can't force a piece to be anything but what it wants to be."

"I envy you in a way. I always wanted to paint, but I have never been very good at making art. I can play the piano a little, and I've been told I'm a good dancer." Of course, that was when he had been possessed of a physical body. Those things were nearly impossible now, and he found himself wondering what it might have been like to hold her close and move with her across a dance floor. It was a thought he knew he shouldn't be having.

"You have artistry of your own," she offered gently. "The way you use language to tell stories, that's art. I, um, I don't think we dance in the same way, unfortunately. Unless you waltz, which I actually can do." She chuckled at her answer to his comment, but her mind had wandered back to Halloween and the brief time she had spent in his arms. What would it be like to dance with him?

He laughed a little, seemingly amused by her question. "Of course, I can waltz," he said, as if that much was obvious. "That is not the problem," he continued, indicating his body - or lack thereof - with the wave of a hand.

"Music touches the memory in a way that words never could," she said quietly, as though quoting someone. Perhaps she was quoting, she couldn't have said. "Nana said that my grandfather was a professional pianist, and that he'd taught her to love music the way she did. She said when she listened to music, she could bring him back."

"That explains her fondness for the piano," he said, more to himself than to her. "She played for me sometimes, after your grandfather died." He had not said much about whether they had been acquainted before that or not. "I suppose that is why she wanted you to learn. It made her happy to hear you play."

"I wish she'd told me about you," she murmured regretfully. "I remember when I was little, when she used to put me to bed, she'd tell me that the captain wouldn't let anything happen to me. If I'd known you then, we could have been friends much sooner."

"Did she?" he asked, arching a brow. He seemed surprised by this, so obviously, he hadn't been watching or listening to all their little bedtime rituals. A promise was a promise, after all, and what kind of man - or ghost - would he be if he couldn't keep a promise, even if no one would have ever known"

"Yes, she did," she nodded. "Every night." She stilled, the smile fading from her face. "You know what else I wish?" Her eyes rose to his as she sighed softly, her hands falling from their assumed position to hang loose at her sides. "I wish I could touch you. I really want to hug you right now. Is that foolish?"

It seemed the waltz had ended, as her hands dropped to her side, and he met her frown with one of his own. "There might be a way," he told her after a moment's consideration, though he wasn't really sure it would work.

"Really?" she asked him quietly, tilting her head in vague confusion as she looked up at him. Odd, how she had gone from terror to such comfort in the space of barely more than an hour. "So I could touch you, maybe?"

"I'm not sure really," he mused aloud, stepping back a pace now that they were no longer dancing. "You remember the time you saw me in your room?" he asked, wondering just how much of that night she really remembered, as it had been a long time ago, at least to her reckoning.

Kit nodded, a half-smile touching her lips as she seemed to relax. Despite her waking reaction to the moment, it was a memory she was rather fond of these days. "I remember," she assured Randal. "What about it?"

"How much of it do you remember?" he asked, evidently trying to get at something, though it was as yet, unclear just what that something was.

She paused thoughtfully, drawing her mind back to that night. "I remember feeling a bit cold," she mused, her soft frown more for the effort of remembering. "And then I wasn't cold, but I thought someone was in the room, and when I opened my eyes, there you were."

"Yes, I had..." He broke off as if just realizing something that perhaps he hadn't thought of before. "You were cold and I'd adjusted the blankets," he said, thoughtfully a moment. He turned away, moving slowly about the room as he tried to sort it all out. "There are times when I am almost able to touch things..." he started.

Her eyes widened, surprised by this revelation, but more deeply touched that he had thought to cover her when she was sleeping as a child. She watched him turn away, sliding her hands into the pockets of her jeans as he seemed to consider what he was telling her. "Is there any common correlation between those times?"

"I'm not sure," he said again, mentally trying to put two and two together. There had certainly been times when he'd been able to touch things or very nearly touch things. He'd adjusted her blankets when she'd been asleep. Had it occurred because he had willed it and wanted it, or because she had been half in that netherworld between waking and sleeping"

Katrina frowned thoughtfully herself, moving to gently cover the piano in the dust sheet once again as she, too, considered what he had told her. "You know ....you don't have to avoid the bedroom," she heard herself say quietly, though the same offer did not extend to the bathroom. "I trust you, strange as that might seem. I don't think you would take advantage of having that access."

He frowned a little as he looked over to see her replacing the white cloth over the much loved piano. "I made a promise," he reminded her, though that promise had been made to a woman who was no longer alive and not to the granddaughter about whom it had partly been made.

She turned, looking over at him. "You promised Nana," she reminded him gently. "And though I might not have known her very well in those last years, I knew her well enough to be able to say that she asked for that promise to protect me somehow while I was growing up. I'm fully grown now, even if it doesn't look like it. And I say you're welcome to come into my bedroom, whenever you like."

He turned back to her; from the look on his face, he was clearly surprised at this unexpected invitation and wondered if she knew just what she was inviting. "And what if you are entertaining a gentleman' What then?" he asked, though he already knew the answer to that question or thought he did.

Kit couldn't help laughing at that, shaking her head. "I highly doubt that will happen," she assured him. "But if it did, I would still feel better to know you're around. That probably sounds awful, but I haven't had the best luck myself when it comes to love. I don't feel safe when I'm on my own with a man. Well, I didn't, until I met you."

"Yes, well, I'm not a man exactly," he pointed out finally, as if she hadn't quite noticed that he was a ghost. He already knew that if she did happen to want to entertain a gentleman friend, he would give her the same privacy he had promised her grandmother he always would. The truth was that he didn't want to see her with someone else, though he knew it would be better for her if she found someone else.

"It was a party," she laughed, shaking her head. "I think I knew about a third of the people there. Everyone else had come with them. And despite the fact that I barely remember anything that happened that evening, I remember every detail with you. You're not a stranger, Randal. I don't think you ever have been."

"I can recall attending - and throwing - a few parties like that of my own. Some mornings, when I awoke, I was not entirely sure what had happened the night before," he recalled with a chuckle at the memory of it. It seemed not all his memories were sad or depressing ones. In fact, before the war, life had been rather enjoyable. He arched a brow at her remark. "Perhaps that is only because I have known you since childhood, even if you did not consciously know me."

"Maybe you and I should avoid getting drunk together, then," she teased him. "I'd hate to think something might happen and neither one of us would remember it." Laughing, she pushed from the piano, moving to join him by the window once more. "You don't think of me as a child, do you?"

"If I had that chance again, I don't think I'd waste it getting drunk," he admitted, almost before he realized what he'd said. Thankfully, she had asked a question he could fairly safely answer, or so he thought. "No, of course not. Not anymore." While it was true that he had not seen her for many years, she was most definitely no longer a child, but a lovely young woman he longed to hold once again in his arms, if only for a little while.

"Good," she smiled, carefully not commenting on his subtle admission. "Because if you did still think of me as a child, that would make some of the things that have been running through my head since Halloween ....well, illegal, for one thing."

He seemed to catch a hint of what she was thinking, or at least, enough that he thought she might be feeling some sort of attraction to him, for some reason. He couldn't deny he was feeling it, too, but he didn't want her wasting her life, her youth, and her beauty pining for a man she could never have, a man who was already dead. "Kit," he started, turning to face her, a look of infinite sadness on his face. "Don't fall in love with me. You will only get hurt."

She stiffened, not taking kindly to anyone giving her orders, much less an order she had no control over whether she obeyed or disobeyed. "I've already been hurt, Randal," she told him, her eyes on the view beyond the window. She looked up at him, a hint of stubbornness in her eyes. "It's my heart. Neither one of us can stop it from happening if it intends to."

He lifted one hand, as if to touch her cheek, before realizing it was futile. All of this was futile....or was it' "You said something before....about forgiving Isabelle," he said, not exactly ignoring her stubbornness but searching for some way to make things up to her.

Kit nodded, turning her attention back to the window, missing the rise and fall of his hand. "She seems to be the catalyst for the decision that brought you to this point," she said thoughtfully, carefully not dwelling on what had just passed between them. "It's a logical decision, to choose to blame her for what happened. And I think the only way you might be able to forgive yourself, is if you forgive her."

"I wish it were that simple," he said with a sigh, turning back to look out the window, far too aware of her presence beside him, even though neither could touch the other. He wondered if she felt a chill with him near or if she could feel his presence at all, though he doubted it. Maybe come morning, she'd convince herself it had all been a dream. Was he acting wisely, promising to visit her again, allowing her to get to know him, chancing she might fall in love with him, or him her" It was almost too late to turn back now. He thought it would have been wiser if he'd never shown himself to her at all, and yet, he he longed to know her better. The loneliness of all the years weighed heavily on his heart, and he longed for companionship and maybe even something more.

If she'd known what was going through his mind, she might have argued with him. Nobility was all very well, but Kit had been lacking a friend she could trust and confide in without fear for too long. It would be cruel of him to promise to visit again, and then fail to keep that promise by design. As to her heart ....it was hers to risk as she chose. Who was to say that love without the hope of more than one night a year together was any worse than what she had already experienced of love" She sighed softly, drawing a hand through her hair. "It might be that simple," she said quietly. "You won't ever know, unless you try."

"I'm not sure how, to be honest," he admitted quietly. "It's not that I blame her for leaving. War changes you," he told her, turning his head toward her a moment as he continued. He thought it sort of went without saying, and yet, he did not know what, if anything, she knew of war. Enough to know how horrific it was, he supposed. "I was not the same man she married. It isn't that. It was before that. There were days where the only thing that kept me going was the thought of her, but apparently, she did not feel the same. It was not so very hard to replace me once I was gone."

"I don't understand how someone could change their heart so much," she murmured, shaking her head. "But then, I've never been in a situation like that. I'm in no position to judge anyone for their actions, no matter the consequences." She sighed softly, looking up at him. "What do you think you need to forgive yourself for?"

It took very little forethought to answer that question. After all, he'd had decades to mull it over. Even if he did somehow manage to forgive himself and Isabelle, there was no guarantee he'd be freed from this existence, and even if he was, what would happen then" Heaven or hell seemed two extremes, and he felt he belonged in neither place. "For giving up on life, I suppose," he answered with a small shrug of his uniformed shoulders. "You know, I've often wondered why I was spared when so many of my comrades were killed. Why me" I should have died there. It would have been simpler that way."

"Maybe this was how things were supposed to happen," she mused quietly. "Maybe whatever's in charge up there knew my Nana would need you someday." Because not even Kit was going to voice the hope that his continuation had anything to do with her.

"I'm sorry. This is rather morose, isn't it' Far too depressing a topic of conversation for one such as yourself. You said you wanted some dinner, didn't you? It's easy to forget these things when you no longer remember what it is to feel hungry," he apologized with what he hoped was a sincere smile.

She laughed faintly, wishing she could touch him. She was, by nature, a very tactile person, and it was odd not to be able to touch his sleeve, or nudge his arm, when she wanted to. "It's pretty easy to forget to eat when you're more interested in your housemate, too," she assured him.

"Yes, well, conversation isn't going to fill your belly, I'm afraid," he pointed out, his smile widening a little. "Shall I leave you in peace or would you prefer company?" He knew which choice he'd prefer, but it was really up to her.

"Stay." Her answer came without the need for thought at all, her smile inviting as she turned toward the door. "You can laugh at my cooking as much as you like." Flashing him a smile, she moved toward the door, collecting the steak knife from the table as she passed it. "I promise, I will be a better cook by this time next year."

"It hardly matters, when I can neither smell nor taste it," he replied back, though he arched a brow at the implied promise that she'd cook for him next Halloween when he presumably would be able to take on a physical form and appreciate it fully. There was no way of knowing what might happen between now and then, however. Any number of things could happen. She could meet someone and fall in love, for example, no matter how unlikely she thought that might be.

She paused, looking back at him with a slightly bemused smile. "You're going to have to learn not to take me quite so seriously," she warned him, her tone almost fond as she spoke. "Or you are going to get very tired of being teased."

"Would you prefer I follow you to the kitchen or materialize out of thin air?" he asked, perhaps teasing her back just a little. It was hard to tell, though from the smirk on his face, it seemed he thankfully did possess a sense of humor.

She giggled. "So long as you don't leap out and yell boo, you can travel any way you like, captain," she teased, turning to slip from the room on her way to the kitchen. Though she might have been frightened earlier, she didn't think there was any need to be afraid of her live-in ghost. If nothing else, she wouldn't be alone again.

"Very well," he said, hoping she wouldn't regret her statement. It was a lot easier to will himself where he wanted to be there pretend to walk on a floor he couldn't even touch, affecting being alive when he was clearly not. And with that said, he was gone, as though he'd never been there at all, the only proof of his existence a slight chill in the air.

Pausing in the hallway, Kit looked back into the music room, remembering hours spent there learning to play the beautiful piano under her grandmother's tuition. Those memories seemed somehow more precious, now that she knew she had always had an audience for those lessons, someone to whom music meant such a lot. She smiled, reaching to draw the door closed.

"Thank you, Nana. I'll look after him. Promise."

((So he really is a ghost, and one with manners at that! What will happen, do we think"))