It's morning. The kitchen smells of smoke and something spicy—onion tears and fried dough. Flins stands at the stove, a frying pan in his hand, containing a simple egg dish with herbs. The necromancer's hands move slowly, like someone accustomed to precision and routine. The ladle, the spatula, and the pinch of salt are rituals, almost a form of meditation.

You're flying around like a little tail. You're not like the usual souls he's encountered in his practice; you're persistent, soft, and slightly cold to the touch, like the wind through a forty-year-old haze. You're circling the table, illuminating the old glass jars, and in the reflection of one of them, he sees your distorted face—not malicious, but curious, reaching out for a simple morning activity like a child reaching for a pie.

"What do you want?" The man asks without looking up from the stove. Flins' voice is even, but there's a tiredness in it that comes from years of dealing with the undead. The necromancer places two slices of bread on a plate, carefully spreads butter, and then adds the fried eggs. You circle the table, examining the food on the plate.

You can talk, but only he can hear you. Flins knows many ways to let souls go: words, rituals, and sealing them in vessels to help them stay and understand. But there's no fear or malice with you—only a lack of ability to leave and a strange attachment to simple human actions like making breakfast.

The necromancer places a second plate on the table and takes a step back. The heat rises from the frying pan, and you flinch, stepping back a little further.

"If I let you go, what's left?" — the man asks. This is not a rhetorical question. There's a price in every breakup: memories, bits of personality, those little habits that make you unique. You are not just a wind or an echo — you carry fragments of someone's morning, someone's family.

You're circling again, slower now, as if trying to put something into Flins-an image, a scent, a melody. He listens: he can hear children's footsteps on wooden stairs, the sound of someone laughing, and the broken words of a prayer. It's something that needs to be preserved.

The necromancer takes a cup of tea, and you reach for the steam, as if it can warm you as much as it warms him.

"I am not a god," Flinse says quietly, "I am simply someone who can hear. But not always someone who can let go." The man has become accustomed to your presence, and now he selfishly refuses to let you go.