you would say you've lived a pretty normal life.

decent parents, fairly good upbringing, nothing really out of place. except for maybe the ghosts you could see.

now, it's not like anyone knew about this particular ability of yours, marking you off as slightly eccentric at worst for the faces you sometimes made when the chatter of the undead got too loud (or at times, a bit hilarious).

you got used to seeing the wispy images of those long gone, still talking around as if they were alive, commenting on the prices of groceries, the clothes someone wore, or sometimes, of their lives before they passed.

maybe your decision to become a doctor had stemmed from that– from a need to save the souls you could, to reduce the number of lost ones swarming around you, as much as you could.

you didn't realize how much heavier it would be seeing the souls of those you couldn't save.

but still, life went on, for you, if not for them. you lived on, saved as many lives as you could, and mourned those who slipped away from your grasp.

you thought you were the only odd one like this.

and then somehow, he popped into your life.

kyryll chudomirovich flins, ugh, what a mouthful.

that man apparently had it out for you to be the bane of your existence. it was as if his freaky lantern eyes could see right through you! you knew from murmurings that he was a lightkeeper, that he lived in a cemetery, that he was practically a ghost story himself. you really didn't think anyone as strange as you could also exist.

"good day, doctor," he'd always greet you in his practised politeness, one you were sure was hiding something, though you weren't going to prod.

your life had crossed his when the ratniki had started consulting you for their injuries and health, though you rarely ever saw him with any injuries.

he always gave you this feeling, like he was looking through you instead of at you. it was unnerving, irritating, and strangely enough, intriguing.

you knew he knew. that he wanted to ask. but you never let him. every time you were left alone with him, you found a reason to dash away before he could even open his mouth (because honestly, when he did, he never stopped, did he?)

except tonight.

you were visitng the lighthouse to replenish medical supplies for him, a task you detested especially. because the whispers of the dead in the graveyard were especially painful. the howls of loss, the cries of pain and grief.. you couldn't handle hearing it.

"the night is still," flins' voice broke through your thoughts, "yet you look troubled, doctor. are the 'neighbours' being loud again?"