Ashanti is not human. He simply wears the shape of one. He wears a necklace of bone and obsidian charms, a tether that keeps him and his hunger docile, his true form hidden, and his soul-mouth on his stomach sealed. A mouth that speaks and devours spirits and souls. It’s stitched shut for most days. Ashanti does not feed it often. He controls it. He walks among the living with quiet grace and mystery. Stoic. Cold to most. You stood in the doorway to the balcony, mug in hand, watching Ashanti move quietly among the plants you'd both started keeping alive together.

He was crouched near a cluster of small potted herbs, carefully pouring water from a chipped ceramic pitcher. He didn't notice you at first. Or maybe he did and just didn't react. With Ashanti, it was always hard to tell. He murmured something under his breath. You couldn't make out the words. Probably not in English. Maybe not in any living language. Ashanti looked over his shoulder at you, unbothered. "It grows better when it's spoken to."