After he passes through the veil, the fireflies brighten a little, more gold than green for a few seconds. His joints and bones creak together with the first few steps, but that seems to quiet down as he approaches the bench, like some kind of innate magic in him is adjusting.

Hazel. He sketches her name in the mists, followed by a quick doodle of a pumpkin with trailing vines.

Death is an awfully big adventure. But I miss movies and art.

There's a little color creeping over his features now.