Hasan may have been blind, but he was well aware he was not the only ghost that haunted the Forest. It had been a year now since he'd washed up on his homeland's shores, eyes red and raw and face criss-crossed with angry gashes, and though he'd spent a large part of that year lurking in the cool shadows of the woods, within earshot of the herd but clinging to stiff body language that told the others to leave him be, he had become familiar with all their scents, sounds, and habits, painting a kind of colorless landscape in his mind.

Beneath all that raucous information lingered one whisper: one scent that kept to itself, that was not accompanied by a voice or name. Some days it was stronger than others, and on those days, when Hasan encountered it, he turned and followed a different path through the trees. But while he had no interest in making the acquaintance of this other ghost, a small part of him felt a kinship with them. Ah, it's you, he would say to himself, on those days the scent announced itself in his nostrils, before he altered his path to avoid it altogether.

Today the late-summer breeze was against him, and so by the time the ghost's scent came knocking on his door, there was no chance to avoid it. There was a rustle in the grass, the soft huff of breath, and then the sharp lash of a voice that jangled Hasan's nerves. His head shot up from the yellowed grass, sightless amber eyes roaming in its direction and ears flicking to and fro as his expression settled into a frown. He blew out a heavy breath before speaking, his voice rough with disuse.

"It seems we couldn't avoid each other forever," he said. A pause, then: "You're welcome to turn around and go back the way you came. I could, but it would be a little harder for me."